


sed terrae graviora manent

by tavrincallas



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Most of the fic is T-rated, hopefully it'll be worth it, i am sorry for clogging up the tag, it's slow build but wait for it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-19 00:50:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17591633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tavrincallas/pseuds/tavrincallas
Summary: The joke’s on Adam, now – Fourteen is sleeping next to him, has saved his life more than one day, and now has a name - Jordan Henderson. Adam would never have guessed that as Fourteen’s real name, but it suits him anyway.(Otherwise known as The Bourne Legacy AU that no one has ever asked for)





	sed terrae graviora manent

**Author's Note:**

> January is drawing to a close. I will post the last chapter to the WIP (island on the edge of forever) in a few days' time, but until then-- have this instead. Obviously some lines were stolen from the movie. 
> 
> Title is Latin for "But on earth, worse things await" by Virgil (from Aeneid 6:84)

 

_i. fourteen_

 

The man huffs and puffs as he continues to hike his way up the snowy mountains, where all he could see is an endless vista of pure whiteness and the cloudless blue skies, the sun shining right above his head. A trail of footsteps is left in his wake in the crispy snow, as he squints at his watch and stops to adjust the straps of his rucksack, which appears larger than his own torso and maybe carries even twice or thrice his own weight.

If he thinks that this is the toughest journey he has ever made, he is mistaken.

He takes off his goggles for a second, wiping the stray snowflakes off before putting them on again. He frowns at the scratches on the surface, after an earlier altercation with a pack of wolves he has encountered while drying himself off at the riverbank. _No_ _matter_ , he thinks. He got away alive, even at the sacrifice of his expensive pair of goggles (that he scraped just enough money for, in order to get a proper trekking gear for this fucking training hike. His employers are _parsimonious_ that way— to keep their employees in check.)

Another mile of trekking and he will be at his final destination, he surmises, as he glosses over the map in his hands. Never mind that he has taken the shortcut (others may call it the crazy way), of taking the mountain pass instead of the usual training route – he has always enjoyed a challenge and if it means he could save time, hell, he would grab the chance. Even if it would mean risking his life.

Some days he does feel like he is a dead man walking, some days he thinks there is nothing else in this world worth living for. His employers have stripped him off his own name and identity, and the only thing he owns now is a fucking number.

_Agent Fourteen._

Like some faceless product out of an assembly line at a factory.

He pulls out his dog tags from underneath the multiple layers of clothing, hanging around his neck, the metal burning against his skin. A small metal pillbox is attached to his dog tag chains, with the numbers _900617_ engraved on them. His fingers are shaking; he is sweating profusely despite the cool, chilly climate and the fact that he is likely to suffer from frostbite at any given moment. He snaps the pillbox open – three green pills, which could last him for another 72 hours – _‘It’s fine,’_ he thinks, ‘ _I could cope_ without _the greens for a while longer.’_

His eyes flicker to the blue powdery remnants of what used to be his blue pills – and he begins to panic.

Withdrawals are beginning to kick in, and he needs to get to the final checkpoint quickly to get more chems. In desperation, he takes off his gloves and swipes the small amount of powdery blue substance between his thumb and forefinger, before licking them off his fingers. _‘That will do,’_ he thinks. _‘There is plenty more where I’m headed. Don’t panic,’_ he tells himself.

He sighs and tucks his dog tags back underneath his clothes, before making his final trek uphill to the cabin in the snowy mountains.

 

* * *

 

_ii. rodgers_

 

In London, the MI6 is in tatters. Their ex-agent, James Milner, previously code-numbered _Agent Seven_ is on the loose – and with it comes the risk of him whistleblowing MI6’s secret, illegal program, codenamed Operation MELWOOD.

Not even the PM is aware of the program, not even the MI6 chief – and if word gets around, everything that Colonel Rodgers and his team has worked for in the last ten years will fall apart. Colonel Brendan Rodgers is an Iraq war veteran in his late forties, charming and slick, but tough and _especially_ cruel when he needs to be. His thin lips stretch into a mirthless smile when he realizes that once again, Milly has slipped under the radar despite the heavy efforts his team has put into capturing him. He should have known that Milly is a slippery snake when he first recruited the Yorkshire punk into the program, and he shouldn’t have underestimated his own agents.

Rodgers has been overseeing this program since its infancy, collaborating with a major pharma company to create the chems that will keep his agents on a tight leash. As news breaks out that Agent Seven is on the run – and worse, has decided to go by his given birth name, _James Milner,_ Rodgers realizes that Operation MELWOOD is at risk. Somehow the chems aren’t working as well as he thought it would have, because Milly has now remembered his own fucking name, has remembered where he once came from – and now is openly rebelling against his former employers.

He could not risk this happening to his other agents – nor could he risk the program being exposed to the public, because as much as the world loves some comic-book superhero bullshit in films, the entire ethical ground of creating brainwashed supersoldiers in the real world is shaky at best.

Rodgers needs to rectify this urgent matter as discreetly and swiftly as possible, so as to protect the bigger, badder, _beta_ operation he has running under his sleeve.

 

* * *

 

_iii. fourteen_

 

The grin that he receives from the man at the door is unexpectedly friendly – too open and saccharine for his tastes, after the shit he has been through. “Welcome, Agent Fourteen,” the tall man greets impishly, with a lazy drawl, as he rubs his gloved hands together in glee.

Fourteen could not help but notice the foreign lilt—Croatian, he thinks, in the man’s otherwise impeccable English, and he doesn’t expect to encounter a European agent in this neck of the woods. “You broke the record by two days, you know that?” the Croatian says, almost in incredulity and amazement.

The only reply Fourteen could give is a teeth-chattering grimace. He knows he stinks of a week’s worth of not showering, and already from the ajar door he could feel comfortable heat emanating from inside of the cabin. If his olfactory sense isn’t playing mind games with him, he could smell some sort of stew cooking from the back of this bloke’s kitchen, too.

“I’m freezing,” he finally says, his voice coming out strange and broken. It is only then that he realizes that these are the first words he’d spoken to anyone in weeks, not even to himself.

“Oh, do come in,” the Croatian agent beckons him inside. “Didn’t mean to be rude.”

The interior of the cabin is more spacious than what he thought it would be, judging from just the outside. There are computers and surveillance monitors at one end of the room, and a mini-laboratory at the opposite end. More importantly, right in the middle is a steaming pot of coffee and hot chow on the table. “Didn’t expect you to come so early,” the Croatian agent scratches his head. “I would have made you extra food.”

 

* * *

 

After taking off his gear and making himself look more presentable, Agent Fourteen and the Croatian decide to sit by the fireplace for an unofficial debriefing. He learns that the Croatian agent’s number is Six, and that he has been guarding this outpost for the last two years.

 _Two fucking years._ That’s too long and too harsh to be sitting here making rabbit stews and playing some sort of a gracious host to agents on a training run.

Fourteen frowns hard. “Aren’t you bored?”

“I am _content_ ,” Six replies, with as much Zen as he could muster, but Fourteen could sense a hint of disappointment, and maybe even anger in his voice.

“How did you get sent up here? All by yourself? For two fucking years?”

Six’s eyes snap up sharply. “One, for a pretty elf like you, you sure have a foul mouth. Two, it’s none of your business.”

Fourteen stares back at Six, refusing to back down. He narrows his eyes, without blinking, and coolly asks – “Well, I was assigned to come here. So what _is_ my business?”

“Anything but _that_ ,” Six replies –still abrupt, but there is melancholy in his voice, now – his body language softening into something akin to sorrow. Fourteen’s shoulders droop. Empathy is a cruel thing. Whatever this guy has done to get into this mess, it couldn’t have been nice.

“So what is it that you do here?” Fourteen asks eventually, aiming for casual. He sips on his coffee leisurely, as his eyes searches around the place. “Apart from being a hermit and welcoming stray agents into your humble abode?”

Six shrugs. “We send them supplies on Thursdays,” he indicates towards the mini-laboratory. “In return, they send us chems and food on Mondays. Using drones.”

 _Supplies._ That explains the laboratory fridges and blood taking equipment in one dark corner of the cabin. Which reminds him that he is three-months overdue on his blood round and health check-up – one of the perks of being a MELWOOD agent, if you’re on the run from the Arab mafia and nearly died in Morocco, before getting sent another ridiculously unrelated assignment for a fucking training hike in the Bavarian Alps.

While also running dangerously low on chems.

“Do you have extra chems too? I’m running out of Blues,” he says, referring to his blue pills, full of hope.

“You’re in luck my friend,” Six grins, back into his jocular mood. “I’ve got two extra Blues left, enough to share it with you. How about Greens? You got enough Greens?”

“Enough to last until Monday, I think,” Fourteen replies with a smile.

Little does he know that he would be a dead man by then.

 

* * *

 

After supper and a shot of green and blue pills, Six shows him to his sleeping bunk, where countless other agents have slept and made their mark on the wooden frame of the sturdy bed. Various numbers are carved onto the wood.

66.

23.

He is reminded of his earlier conversation with Six during supper – the man couldn’t stop heaping praises and showing disbelief that he had broken the record by two days. “So how did you get here so fast?” he’d asked him, and the look on the Croatian man’s face was utterly comical, when Fourteen told him that he’d come via the mountain pass.

“Fuck, no one had done that before. Climbing the mountains is one thing. Then there are the wolves! Do you have a death wish or something?”

Fourteen has shrugged it off with a nonchalant, “Maybe.” He has tried to steer away from any conversation about wolves. If Six were to find out that he was nearly mauled to death by a pack of wolves...

He better not say anything.

“Little Red Riding Hood,” the Croatian has blurted out randomly.

“Sorry, what?”

“Nah, it’s just that – first, you broke the record by two days – which is amazing, by the way,” Six has said, before turning sullen, as if a miserable thought has crossed his mind. They both know who has held the previous record, and if the news from London is to be believed, Agent Seven has gone AWOL.

And now, Fourteen couldn’t sleep. He tosses and turns in the bed, thinking that the lumpy mattress is far more uncomfortable than the cold hard earth he had been sleeping on in the last week or so. More worryingly, his mind still couldn’t stop buzzing from what he has heard since his arrival at this cabin – about London, about the assassination of the gormless _The Guardian_ journalist in New York – which must have been MI6’s vile attempt to cover up what Agent Seven is up to.

He turns sideways and notes another carving hidden by the sides of the lumpy mattress – but enough to pique his interest. He is wide awake, now, as his fingers trace the coarse markings made by a sharp blade, a scrapped out ‘7’ and an even louder declaration carved below it:

MY NAME IS JAMES MILNER.

Fourteen doesn’t know how long this has been here for, or how could anyone not notice – or if they do, they must have decided to turn a blind eye. The message is clear, though – and in light of what has happened recently, Fourteen realizes that Agent Seven – or James Milner, as he now wishes to be known, has _remembered_ – and that makes him an _aberrant._

A rogue.

It is easy to see the three-piece-suits running Operation MELWOOD scratching their heads, wondering how to deactivate this aberrant – in other words, how to assassinate Milly. But they need to find him first, and they couldn’t even do that properly.

Fourteen’s heart begins to hammer in his chest. He wonders if other MELWOOD agents have been given the green light to terminate Milly, and if so, who are the unlucky bastards that had to kill their own family?

Unwanted memories begin to filter through his fragile mind, crashing like undulating waves. He tries to shut his eyes to stop them from coming – but they keep assaulting him, with images and voices from his past life, when he still had a name, when he still had a home.

He is suddenly on the streets of Sunderland, an urchin, a kid playing at being an adult, a wannabe punk in the seedier part of town, a youth member of a notorious gang. He is suddenly rounded up and captured, and somehow, Milly is there, grinning down at him, telling him things will be okay, that they will get through this, as he and several others are forced to crowd together behind a police truck. Then he is in a lab full of people dressed in immaculate white coats and grim faces, carrying clipboards and smelling of chemicals. He is strapped to a bed – and he wants to escape, but no matter how he wills himself to move, he _couldn’t._

There are nurses taking his blood sample, and suddenly – a kind face, _finally_ , he thinks, a familiar face from more recent memories, a young, gentle doctor– and he should have been afraid, but he isn’t. The doctor’s voice is soothing – “You’re going to be alright, Agent Fourteen,” he tells him, “I am Doctor 20, and I will be doing your health check-up today.”

Fourteen is at a loss. The last time he saw Doctor 20 must be more than a year now, and he’d only seen him seven times, but he is the most memorable doctor in the MELWOOD health check-up facility out of everyone Fourteen has met. Must be the amount of times he changes his hairstyle, or the fact that Fourteen’s noticed too – he has accidentally slipped out an _‘I prefer your hair short’_ comment during one of their small chats, and Fourteen remembers smiling when he sees the colour rising to Doc 20’s cheeks afterwards. They had shared a fleeting glance before Fourteen was told to put his clothes back on, and that was the last of Doc 20 he’d seen.

 _Doctor_ _20_.

It is stupefying, really, that Operation MELWOOD aims to strip everyone off their identities – not just of its agents, but the medical staff involved, to depersonalise _everyone_ – and for what? To remove any sense of personal attachment?

As if in a dream, his mother’s voice starts calling out to him, repeating a strange name he hasn’t heard in nearly ten years – and Fourteen’s eyes snap open.

Breathing heavily, Fourteen fumbles in his pocket and takes out a Swiss knife, before carving his own number – 14 – onto the wood, right beside Milly’s name.

Like Milly before him, Fourteen scratches the number out with his blade, like a man possessed.

Without wasting further time, he sets out to write his destiny. He accepts his fate, now – so maybe he _is_ an aberrant. A _rogue_. If the MI6 finds out, they probably will be out to get him too, but it doesn’t matter.

Admiring his handiwork, Fourteen folds his knife and slips it back into his pocket. Only those agents who are lucky enough to sleep in this bunk in the next training runs will see what Fourteen had written:

MY NAME IS JORDAN HENDERSON.

 

* * *

 

_iv. adam/twenty_

 

In Liverpool, Adam Lallana has just finished examining an agent code-numbered Twelve when a colleague pops his head into the examination room and beckons him to step out for a moment.

"What's up, Trent?" Adam whispers, looking tense and alarmed at the sudden intrusion.

"Guess what."

"What?"

"Heard it through the grapevine that the Blues has successfully been viralled off just as the Greens have!" Trent grins enthusiastically. Adam's eyes widen.

"How did you know this?"

"Apparently our colleagues in Cairo tested some Blue live virus cultures on single digit MELWOOD agents as part of their super secret beta program, and it worked. No more Blue or Green pills, my friend. Just one vaccine injection, and boom – a supersoldier is born. Our work here is done."

Adam chuckles nervously, before Agent Twelve clears his throat behind him. "Uh, Doc, are we done here?"

"Yeah, sorry – you may go. Sorry to keep you waiting," Adam apologizes profusely. "Thank you for attending your health check up on time," he smiles kindly. At least Twelve isn't like some of his other agents – like Fourteen, for instance. Adam hasn't seen Fourteen in what feels like years, maybe more. He knows he shouldn't pry, but Adam has been snooping around and none of his other colleagues have seen him either. Makes him wonder if Fourteen is dead – or is in trouble somewhere, and really, it's not even Adam's job to worry, but he has a soft spot for Fourteen and his atrocious Geordie accent.

Trent doesn't even hide the fact that he is openly ogling Twelve as he leaves. Adam has to slap his wrist gently to remind him not to be so obvious, but Trent tells him that not every day he gets to appreciate eye-candies in this wretched place. As soon as Twelve is out of earshot, Adam asks Trent if it is really just single digit agents that are getting vaccinated with Blues. "That's what I heard, that's what Dr Klopp heard, too."

"They're not expanding the vaccines to _our_ agents?" Adam frowns. "But why?"

"It's the MI6," Trent huffs. "They do crazy batshit things, we're just following orders, right? Besides, I could be totally wrong. It could just be a baseless rumour."

"And we're not exactly ever going to get Nobel prizes for our groundbreaking work either," Adam adds bitterly.

Trent hums as they make their exit from the clinical area of the Institute on third floor, back to the labs on the fifteenth floor. On Thursdays, Adam spends his mornings doing clinical work – health checkups for MELWOOD agents, although he keeps them brief and to the bare minimum. Be professional, he thinks, and always maintain good bedside manners, but he will always be an academic first.

He doesn't pry into the agents' lives – he was told to only care about their physical health, and he doesn't need to know about his agents' jobs. He only knows them by their numbers, whether their blood results are satisfactory, whether they are functional as agents or not.

In the afternoon, he goes back to the fifteenth floor to continue with his lab work. He has given up so much to be part of this new research, although some might call it unethical. He is engrossed with the science behind it, of how magnificent the human mitochondria are and how much more could be done if a human's energy production could be amplified by just 1.5 times more than normal. He has devoted nearly five years of his life slaving in secret, even his mom doesn't know what he really does for a living – and at this point, he doesn't really care to explain.

The elevator dings as it reaches the fifteenth floor, where the doors open, leading them to another set of metal doors which require special access swipe cards and retinal scans to enter. Adam and Trent are greeted by Dr Jurgen Klopp, their German supervisor, who is still irate about Cairo.

"If scuttlebutt is to be believed," he begins, "—they're not going to mass produce the vaccines like those chems. It's all very dodgy. Maybe they just want to test it on a select few first, but really, this smells real fishy to me."

"Well," Robbo says, "—if you want to know if it really works, why don't you fly out to Malaysia and steal the live virus cultures for ourselves and test them out on our agents?" Robbo is Scottish, with a thick Glaswegian accent, and a super-unhealthy penchant for square sausages and potato scones. "Eh, Adam?" he nudges. "How about that one agent you have a crush on, what's his number? _Fourteen_ , was it?"

Adam literally has to kick Robbo's foot to make him shut up.

Trent narrows his eyes. "Why Malaysia though? I thought the breakthrough was in Cairo?"

"Cairo was where they did their research. Malaysia, my friend, is where they make all the chems and keep the stems, the live virus, all that shebang," Adam explains, happy enough to move from the rumours about his agent crushes, before clicking his tongue and heads straight towards his work space.

"Alright Trent, enough chat," Dr Klopp teases. "Time to do some work," he claps his hands.

"Aye, gaffer," Robbo replies merrily as he peers into his microscope.

 

* * *

 

_v. rodgers_

 

"Sir," the agent begins in a soft , indeterminate European accent, "Are you sure you want to do this?"  He is a tall man in his late 20s with an imposing build, crisply dressed in black, currently standing in front of Rodgers's desk.

Rodgers looks up at the Dutch agent before him, before sighing heavily. "If the media gets hold of whatever Milly is about to reveal to the world, I'd rather we destroy the evidence now. You know what to do, yes?"

"I've informed the handlers about the chems, yes, sir."

"And how about the labs?" Rodgers asks insidiously.

There is hesitation in Agent Van Dijk's voice, shivers running down his spine as he tells Rodgers, "I've taken care of that too, sir."

"Any unaccounted agents, Agent Van Dijk?"

"Two in the Bavarian Alps, sir," he flicks his notes, "—at the training outpost near Zell Am See. Agents Fourteen and Six, but we've got them covered too, sir."

"Right. Make sure you do," Rodgers nods, giving Agent Van Dijk the permission to leave. He flicks his own set of classified files, his eyes scanning the profiles of Six and Fourteen.

Dejan Lovren and Jordan Henderson.

 _Too bad,_ he thinks. They were such great assets, but some sacrifices have to be made.

 

* * *

 

In Budva, Montenegro, a handler slips her agent a red pill – "This is a new kind of chem that will replace your Blues and Greens. It lasts longer, too."

"When should I take it?" Agent Forty One inspects the pill sceptically.

"As soon as you're able," the handler tells him confidently.

 

* * *

 

In Smolensk, Agent Thirty Two casually slips the red pill on his tongue and takes a shot of his vodka to swallow it down.

His next mission, according to his handler, is a big one – and its details will be released soon. "Just take your chems and we'll talk later, his handler has said.

He looks forward to his next assignment.

 

* * *

 

On the LRT en route to KLCC, the passengers initially didn't take notice of a fellow sleeping passenger on the busy carriage. The lady appears to be Indian, probably in her late twenties, dressed in a sharp suit for work –- a professional, judging from her branded shoes and handbag. It is only when the LRT reaches its final stop on the line that people have come to realize that something is wrong.

By the time the crash call came out, Agent Fifty Two has already been dead by at least forty minutes, her empty pillbox still hanging around her neck when she died.

Her cause of death was ruled as 'Non ST Elevation Myocardial Infarction', instead.

 

* * *

 

_vi. adam_

 

Adam is too engrossed in his work to even realize that Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain – affectionately known as Chambo— who also happens to be one of his colleagues with special access into the lab, is standing still at the entrance, silent in his treachery.

Perhaps some could say that he's lucky, because his workstation is far at the back where Chambo's bullets won't reach. Perhaps Adam has been far more interested in looking at his slides under the microscope than realizing that Chambo has aimed at Dr Klopp first, killing the German instantly with one shot through his brain.

By that point his colleagues are scrambling on the floor, screaming in terror, begging for their lives, as more shots are fired across the room. Adam crawls to the end of the room, crouching, praying to God that he wouldn't be caught. Robbo is begging Chambo – "Please, please don't kill me. You ken my missus, we invited you to dinner last weekend, think of my kids," he cries – before Adam hears another shot, then splutters of blood from Robbo's throat, his last gasps of breath before a heavy silence fills the air.

Outside the lab, the security guards are struggling to get in – they don't have the right security passes, and by the time they do, Chambo has killed at least five of Adam's colleagues. Trent is sobbing silently, his entire body shaking. He’s just a young lad- he deserves better than this, Adam thinks. Trent crouches under his desk as he stares at Adam, who is on the far opposite side of the room.

Chambo also has cleverly taken off the door handle off the entrance, which means that the guards still are unable to access the lab through the metal doors, unless they break it down with extra force or a controlled explosion.

Adam glances up at Chambo, who is working methodically, calculatingly aiming the gun with utmost precision. He never knew Chambo would have it in him to be a cold-blooded mass murderer – and he is close enough to Chambo to know that this man that has shot nearly all his colleagues dead – this _isn't_ him. The real Chambo is warm, affectionate, a bright – if a little nerdy— genius. There is no smile on Chambo's lips now, not even a register that this _wrong._ There is only emptiness in Chambo's eyes, as though he has been _brainwashed_.

He could hear the security guards thumping noisily at the door now, but Adam could see nothing apart from the dead bodies lying around him from where he is crouching. Chambo is moving towards Trent's desk, and Adam only manages to scream out a strangled, "No!" – before he hears the shot.

Adam doesn't dare dream, but he and Chambo are the only breathing souls in the room, now.

He decides to break into a run for the nearest door at the back, which leads to nowhere but the storage cupboard, but at least there he wouldn't be an open target. Adam manages to slam the door shut behind him just as a bullet pings right by his ear and hits the metal door, causing a dent. There is no lock to the door, and Adam struggles to pull the door handle shut, in order to prevent Chambo from getting in. He could see Chambo through the small, bulletproof glass panel at the door, his expression placid and unperturbed.

Adam gets rid of his lab coat while Chambo reloads his gun, and twists the material around the door handle for extra leverage. For the next few seconds it is literally a game of tug-of-war between him and Chambo, but at least for now Adam has the upper hand.

He is running out of strength just as Chambo decides to stop wrenching at the door handle and begins to shoot at it instead. The fabric of Adam's labcoat begins to burn on his sweaty palms, and he nearly loses his grip when the security guards finally manage to break into the sequestered compound.

"Freeze! Drop your weapon!"

Chambo knows he has lost, being unable to kill his last target – but he is not yet done. Instead of turning to face the guards, he turns his back on them and stares right down at Adam through the glass panel of the storage cupboard's door. He points the gun under his chin, and pulls the trigger right in front of Adam.

The sight is hell – and there is nothing in Adam's vast, scientific vernacular that could accurately describe his feelings right now – except numbness. He will never forget the bloody sight of his dead friends and colleagues lying atop each other in the lab he once called his safe haven.

Yet, it is only the beginning of Adam's worst nightmares.

 

* * *

 

_vii. jordan_

 

"I fell in love with another agent," Six says, suddenly.

Jordan blinks in confusion. "Sorry, what?"

"You asked me why I've been stationed here for two years. That's why," he confesses, as he prepared the venepuncture needle to take Jordan's blood sample. "I'm here as punishment. Sharp scratch," he warns, before the needle pricks into Jordan's vein, withdrawing blood into two vials. He loosens the tourniquet around Jordan's arm and pulls the needle out, before pressing the puncture site with a cotton wool.

"Love is a weakness," Six muses. "I guess that's what MELWOOD agents' main flaw is. We still have heart. We still could _feel_. Do you think that's why he turned against our bosses?"

"Who?" Jordan scrunches his nose, as he sticks a plaster over the venepuncture site. This is dangerous territory.

"You _know_ who. _Seven_. Milly, or whatever his name is."

Jordan chooses to ignore this line of conversation. Instead, he asks, "What happened to her?"

"Her?"

"The agent you fell in love with. Was she punished too?"

The look on Six's face is sullen; painful. "He—," the Croatian man corrects Jordan. "It's a _he_ , and he's still active, I think. I don't know, we've not been in touch. Scuttlebutt is that he's been transferred to a different program, smaller scale, but even more secretive than MELWOOD."

The thought is scary. MELWOOD agents have heart, which makes them human. What exactly is the MI6 up to? Creating unfeeling, brainwashed agents to become clones of _The Winter Soldier_?

"Why are you telling me all this?" Jordan asks.

Six chuckles sardonically. "I'm in a sharing mood today, since you're such a curious cat. And what better person to share my secrets with than the guy who beat Seven's record, right?"

 

* * *

 

They send Jordan's blood via a drone on Thursday. He has wanted to leave the outpost immediately after, but a snowstorm hit the Alps, causing a delay to his journey for days until the weather improves.

By Sunday morning the skies has cleared, save for a few fogs, but Six makes a clever plea for him to stay another day. "Hey, what's the rush, right? You haven't received any assignment from the bosses, why not stay until Monday? Wait for the next chem drop and you'll get more supplies of Greens and Blues for your next trip."

Jordan considers this as he chews on toast and marmalade, his free left hand automatically reaching for the dog tags around his neck. He knows he only has three greens and two blues left, courtesy of Six, and as much as he wants to leave this dreaded idyllic retreat, he has little option but to stay.

It isn't until lunchtime that any of them realizes that something is wrong. Jordan is leafing through Six’s copy of _The Book of Mormon_ for about the twentieth time when he hears it first— the droll whirring of machinery, masked by the howls of the Alpine winds.

He throws an expired _Mozartkugel_ at Six. "Hey, you hear that?"

"What?"

"Shh," Jordan puts a finger on his lips. "Listen."

It stays quiet for a few seconds, before Six hears it too. "Sounds like a drone. The chems aren't supposed to drop until tomorrow," he says as he stands up and checks his monitors. The fog is beginning to thicken again in this part of the mountains, and he couldn't see anything through the screens.

"Wait here," Jordan says, and heads out of the cabin. He stares at the skies but couldn't see anything either, so he decides to go into the shed where Six keeps his enhanced rifle – and that is when the drone comes into view, screeching its death sentence.

Jordan only manages to scream, "Get out of there!" to Six before the drone launches its missiles at the cabin, instantly blowing it up into smithereens. Jordan is thrown off at least a few good metres away from the blast, and when he comes to, he couldn't believe what he is seeing. There is only smoke billowing in the air where he sat and had coffee, only a few moments earlier.

Someone wants them dead, and there is little to do now but _run_.

Armed with the rifle, he disappears deeper into the woods as the drone flies overhead, assessing the damage it has inflicted. It is only a matter of time before they will realize that Jordan is still alive.

He looks at the faint scar on his left thigh where they have implanted a GPS/heat sensor chip to locate him. Flicking his Swiss knife, he cuts the scar tissue open and winces at the pain as he prods around for the chip. When he finally finds the wretched piece of metal, he places it under his tongue to keep it warm. _'You want to play? Bring it on,'_ he thinks. _'Bring on your bad boys. Let's play. The game is on.'_

 

* * *

 

_viii. rodgers + hendo_

 

"Confirmed hit," the drone operator reports to Rodgers, who is standing behind the screens showing multiple live satellite feeds from the Bavarian Alps.

"Have the targets been acquired?"

"The signal for Six is cold, sir."

Rodgers harrumphs impatiently. "Give me the status report on Fourteen."

"We're still locating his signal...but so far it's cold, sir," the commander replies, when a sudden red blip appears on their radar.

"Target is hot, do you copy? Target is hot."

"Send out all the drones you have and make sure he is deactivated, do you copy?" There is a slight uneasiness in Rodgers's voice – something about the entire cohort that he has personally recruited for MELWOOD makes him tetchy. It doesn't help that Fourteen – or Hendo, as he was known back then, had been friends with Milly, even before Operation MELWOOD, before his staged death, before his recruitment into the British Army.

Three drones are now flying above the trees near Zell Am See, where their sole purpose is to put an end to the second last MELWOOD agent standing.

 

* * *

 

Jordan could hear more of them coming after him, but he isn't the least perturbed. He has been attacked by wolves, what are three mechanical birds piloted by men going to do? _'This one's for you, Six,'_ he thinks, as he aims at one of the drones with his rifle and shoots. _'Sorry I never got to learn your real name,_ ' he muses.

One bird is down. Two to go.

 

* * *

 

The operation room at HQ is in feverish frenzy. "He fucking shot one of our birds down," one of the Army colonels complaints to Rodgers in incredulity. "Is he a _monster_ or something?"

Rodgers listens to the commotion with an uncharacteristic edginess. "He's a MELWOOD agent, and he's a better soldier than any of you will ever be. Now gentlemen, quit playing around and do your jobs properly or I will personally see your family suffer," Rodgers warns.

 

* * *

 

The trail of blood that Jordan has left from his leg wound has enticed the wolves to his scent. Now, he doesn't only have the drones to worry about – the hungry wolves are after him too, especially after several days of snowstorm, which means that they have been unable to hunt for food.

From the distance be could hear the wolves howling, drawing closer towards his location. Jordan works quickly with his hands, setting up a trap as another drone flies above his head. He grabs his enhanced rifle and shoots this one with precision, too, as if it was child's play. _'That one's for you, Milly, wherever you are,'_ he thinks, as he stands behind a tree and watches as a pack of wolves begin to emerge from the fog.

Jordan waits, and waits...

Until one of them steps right into his trap and gets ensnared by the sharp pieces of wood Jordan has laid out, her hind legs bleeding from where the trap first caught her. Jordan fires more shots at the pack of wolves, scaring them off as they run away whimpering.

Another drone approaches.

 _'Sorry, mate,'_ Jordan thinks as he runs towards the trapped, wounded beast, who is still intent on maiming him. He wrenches a stick vertically between the wolf's open jaw before stuffing his GPS chip into the beast's mouth.

He manages to wrestle away from the wolf just as the drone fires another missile, heading straight for them.

 

* * *

 

"Target is cold. Do you copy? Target is cold."

"Solid copy."

"Motherfucker's dead! Finally!" an overzealous drone operator shouts in delight, as Fourteen's signal disappears off the radar. A rancorous applause fills up the operation room, and a slight smile of relief decorates the corners of Rodgers's lips. Even more unexpected is the pang of regret over how he had to terminate one of his best field agents, to save the next program he has on his plate, which is already under way.

Rodgers reflects on the first day he met Hendo – a lanky kid from the wrong side of the track, average, if at best, at everything. Bullied for his size, for even existing, but he never gave up. He fought even in fights he knew he could not win. And then one day Hendo had a growth spurt, and just never looked back.

Had this been a perfect world, Jordan would have been touted as the Mackem version of Steve Rogers, but real life isn't like that. He has been in and out of various youth gangs and crime syndicates before eventually he was recruited into the British Army to clean himself up. He was mostly put on latrine duty more often than receiving actual weapons training, so it came as a surprise to Rodgers that Jordan had applied to join MELWOOD, without even knowing the minutiae of the operation. It surprised Rodgers even more that he passed his aptitude tests with one of the highest marks, second only to Milly.

He'd beaten other more obvious candidates by a considerable margin.

It was in Libya that Jordan Henderson was killed in action and reborn as Agent Fourteen. He was given a full hero's funeral, which he attended in secret. By this point, Fourteen is a formidable force. He is a killing machine, a much more refined version of Frankenstein's Monster, yet still so dependent on his chems to stay alive.

And now, Rodgers has decided to abandon him in pursuit of something better.

Fourteen is dispensible.

Little does Rodgers know that on the day Fourteen was killed, Jordan Henderson has come back to life.

 

* * *

 

_ix. adam_

 

“I’m coming home to Bournemouth,” Adam speaks into the phone receiver. “You can’t expect me to stay here after what happened – I just – I need to be with you guys,” he tells his sister desperately. “I miss you.” He paces back and forth down his kitchen, ruffling his Mohawk-half-bleached hair, sticking them up all over the place. “There isn’t anything left for me here,” he says, before he notices a black SUV parking outside his residence. “Look, I gotta go. The government guys are here, okay? Talk to you later. Love you, bye.”

He hangs up and welcomes the MI6 agents at his doorstep. “Hello, Dr Lallana. My name is Agent Virgil Van Dijk,” the Dutchman introduces himself, “—and this is my colleague, Dr Allison Becker, a psychiatrist.” Adam eyes both of them warily – he has only agreed to this meeting today as the MI6 has sounded so sincere in offering their protection after what has happened, and Adam’s _‘impeccable services for the security of the United Kingdom’_. He certainly isn’t willing to welcome another intrusion into his professional life, let alone his private life – and now the MI6 has sent him a fucking shrink.

Dr Becker is built like a brick and looks far too – _cold_ – to be an actual psychiatrist, but what does Adam know? He doesn’t look like a typical medical doctor or an academic himself, either.

“I’m so sorry for what happened at the Institute,” Agent Van Dijk begins, but Adam is distracted by the presence of two extra suits in his house. “Who are these extra guys? I thought it would just only be you and Dr Becker here?”

“It’s protocol,” Dr Becker reassures him. “After the threat on your life, we have to make sure you are _truly_ safe.”

“You don’t mind us having a look around to make sure, do you?” Agent Van Dijk adds.

Adam’s eyes flicker towards the guns in the agents’ holsters, hidden underneath the suits they are wearing. There is no way he could say no and not get shot, too. What do they normally call this? Being uncooperative?

“Yes, you can,” Adam says through gritted teeth. He feels irritated for no reason at all. These guys are here to help, he reminds himself, so why does their presence feel more like a hindrance?

As the two agents recon the perimeter, Agent Van Dijk, Adam and Dr Becker sit at the dining table where the good psychiatrist presents his opening gambit. “So how are you feeling right now?”

“Shit?” Adam offers. He is too tired to be civil. He’s done being civil. He nearly died two days ago, he deserves to run his foul mouth unchecked once in a while.

“I could only imagine how difficult it must be for you. If there’s anything we could do to help…” Dr Becker trails off, with his best empathetic expression.

“Look,” Adam rubs his face tiredly, “I just want to go home. To my family down south. I’ve already booked a flight ticket and talked to my sister, okay? I’m fine – I just need to clear my head.”

“We understand,” Agent Van Dijk begins, reaching out to touch Adam’s hand, as if luring him to fall for his gesture. He’s a fit bloke, Agent Van Dijk, and if Adam had been in a better mood, he would have reciprocated his good intentions with his charm. But these days Adam is finding it difficult to trust anyone, even if they are wearing their MI6 badges proudly for the entire world to see.

Adam pulls his hand away, not out of disgust but discomfort. “But how do you know if your flight is going to be secure? The safest option is for you to come with us, under our protection, until we know for sure that you are – _safe._ ”

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head bitterly. If Adam hears the word ‘safe’ one more time, he might end up gunning someone in the head himself. Why is everyone treating him like a dainty little princess who needs protected at all times? Maybe he’s always been a stubborn little shit ever since he was a kid, which explains his endless rebellious streak even within the academic community – what with the dyed hair and his penchant for talking – bordering on whining. Klopp had taken a liking to him though, hence Robbo and Trent calling him a teacher’s pet.  

“Alright, so let’s move on to a different topic – why do you think Mr Oxlade-Chamberlain decided to open fire on his colleagues,” Agent Van Dijk asks curtly.

“I don’t know—,” Adam replies, clearly flustered by the direction this interrogation is heading. “I’ve already been asked this, I’ve told you everything I know—,” he says, before he gets cut off mid-sentence.

“Why do you think he left you until last? Why do you think he hesitated to kill you?” Dr Becker questions, his tone of voice less than friendly, now.

Adam’s nostrils flare. “How the fuck do I know?”

Agent Van Dijk leans closer towards him, as if he is about to make fun of him. “Have you ever thought that he likes you?”

“What?”

“Seriously. You’ve worked with him for nearly five years and you never had a clue?” Dr Becker tuts.

Taking a deep breath, Adam lowers his voice and asks quietly, “What the fuck are you on about?”

“We’ve got good evidence that he has been harbouring feelings towards you, Dr Lallana. Letters, emails, texts to family – if there is one common thread in conversation, it’s _you._ ”

Adam is silenced by this revelation.

“I don’t— I don’t know,” Adam stutters. “Look. All I know is that he’s not himself. It’s almost like he’s been brainwashed, like one of those agents—,” he stops mid-sentence, realizing that he either has said too much, or he’s actually onto something, because Agent Van Dijk’s face turns ashen at Adam’s last words.

Ever since the James Milner conundrum and rumours that his employers have managed to viral off Blues in their single digit agents, it almost feels like they’re trying to shut the entire program down and get rid of everything…

And Chambo, he acted as though he was on a Blue chem, unfeeling and mechanical – how could Adam have not seen it?

He is about to ask the MI6 agents to leave his home when the two agents that have been scouring his house return to the dining room, one of them holding Adam’s Smith and Wesson gingerly with a handkerchief. “Found this in the bedside drawer,” he tells Agent Van Dijk pointedly.

“That’s mine, you bastard!” Adam immediately stands up, face flushing with anger and tries to grab hold of the gun from the grinning MI6 goon. “You come into my house, you snoop around my things, you don’t let me go home and see my family—,” Adam begins, but Dr Becker shuts him up and forces him to sit down again. “Did you read your contract properly before you agreed to be employed into Operation MELWOOD, Dr Lallana?”

“I did,” Adam huffs, before he realizes that normal MI6 agents aren’t supposed to know about MELWOOD. “You’re not a MI6 psychologist, are you?”

“I wish it doesn’t have to end like this,” Agent Van Dijk fake pouts. “I really like you,” he says, before kicking Adam right in the face, causing Adam to stumble backwards. He is prevented from falling by Dr Becker, who holds his arms firmly and pushes him face down onto the table. “Careful,” Agent Van Dijk warns, “—don’t want that pretty face all bruised.”

“Doesn’t matter,” one of the MI6 goons who is still holding Adam’s gun shouts out. “He’s gonna end up shooting his own face anyway.”

Adam scrambles to free himself. He manages to elbow Agent Van Dijk in the face before kicking the other MI6 goon to the ground, but Dr Becker Tasers him from behind, effectively maiming him. “He sure is a feisty one. And we all thought that scientists are boring old farts,” the MI6 goon says as he licks the blood from his bottom lip. The four of them pin Adam’s arms and legs on the table, as he squirms and screams to get away. Dr Becker, now with gloved hands, has placed Adam’s own gun in his palm, forcing to manoeuvre Adam’s arm to point the gun at his own head, and pull the trigger.

 _They’re trying to fake my homicide as suicide,_ Adam thinks. _What fresh hell have I gotten into?_

A clean shot to the head immediately takes Becker out of the picture, and for a second there is confusion amongst the remaining three MI6 agents. Adam elbows Van Dijk in the face for a second time, before grabbing his gun and opens fire at one of the MI6 agents who had made remarks about his face and boring scientists, wounding his thigh. He breaks into a run and only manages to dodge Van Dijk’s shot before slipping into the main corridor, hiding behind the wall panels as more shots are fired from outside his window.

“There’s a sniper!” Van Dijk cries out, before another shot goes through one of the goon’s belly, the same one whom Adam has shot on the leg. “Find him!” Van Dijk orders his remaining agent, as they search for this invisible assailant, while attempting to complete Adam’s assassination at the same time.

Adam is stunned. He is trapped inside his own home, and he crawls to the nearest phone to dial 999, only to find out that the line has been cut. He searches his pockets for his cellphone and curses at his idiocy when he realizes that one of the MI6 goons must have frisked it off him, too. He runs upstairs and locks himself in the main bedroom, away from the windows, when the door knob starts to rattle. He is about to shoot the uninvited intruder when he hears another gunshot, and the unmistakable _thump_ of a lifeless body falling to the floor, right outside his door.

He is still pointing the gun at the man when the door opens, but it not one of the MI6 agents who had tried to kill him, or somebody Adam recognizes – or if he does, it must be a dream.

The man is taller than Adam, with a smart crew cut, wears a faded black leather jacket. His blue eyes colder than ice— yet his rage radiates like the warmth of a thousand suns – and Adam thinks, _I know you._

This not-stranger closes the door quietly with a tap of his leather-booted foot, whispering, “It’s okay, Doc, it’s _me._ ” He tucks his gun at his waist before raising his arms as a sign of peace, and steps closer towards Adam. “It’s me, _Fourteen._ Remember? I’m not going to hurt you – now if you’d just point your gun away from my face for a moment that would be great…”

“Did you kill them all?” Adam whispers shakily, all broken and in tears – and by God, he’s not a crier, he doesn’t mean to cry, he doesn’t want Fourteen to see him like this, if this man really is Fourteen, it’s too good to be true – and Adam doesn’t even know anymore.

“Agent Van Dijk’s still alive, and I’m going to get that bastard, you hear me? And then I’m coming back to get you.”

Adam stares at Fourteen – in admiration, in disbelief, almost. He hasn’t been in for check-ups since forever, and Adam really thought he was dead. It’s really good to see a familiar face sometimes, even if it’s an unexpected one. “How do I know you’re coming back for me?”

Fourteen blinks in amusement, before unclasping his Breitling wristwatch and hands it to Adam. “You wait outside this door, and wait for a full sixty seconds, you hear me? After sixty seconds, I want you to shoot down on the floor. Doesn’t matter if you can’t see what you’re shooting at, as long as you’re shooting down. Understand?”

Adam nods.

“And then I’m coming back for this watch, because it’s my prized possession. And you,” he adds, almost like an afterthought, “—preferably alive,” he says with a scandalous smirk. “I promise.”

And Adam doesn’t know why, but through his tears at that moment he finally feels as though he could let out a hearty laughter, out of relief, perhaps – because he actually believes that he is going to survive this.

 

* * *

_x. jordan_

 

Jordan has escaped the Alps with a graze on his left thigh and a few scratches on his face, courtesy of the wolf pack. He hitched on a pickup truck to Vienna, where he stole a Cessna and flew back to Newcastle, where he topped up on his money and multiple passports of different nationalities and names.

It was in Newcastle that he was updated on the lone gunman and the attack on staff in Liverpool, before realizing that they are really erasing every tiny detail of Operation MELWOOD, down to its last personnel. So far, they have done three major blunders – failing to capture Milly, failing to kill him (and letting him waltz back into the States like it’s nobody’s business), and now, failing to kill Doc 20.

Of all people.

 _It had to be Doc 20,_ Jordan muses.

And Doc 20 now has a name – _Adam Lallana_. He doesn’t know why but he feels happier after knowing that tiny detail, as if he’s always known Doc 20 as Adam Lallana, even if they have only met seven times for ten minutes at each health check-up. His fingers travel up to his dog tags again, and he is aware that time is against him. He needs to be thrifty with his meds in order to reach Adam – whom hopefully will be able to gain access to more Blues and Greens.

The cookie crumbs have led Jordan here, at Doc 20’s own personal residence – where Adam was forced to pull the trigger on himself. Jordan felt a personal satisfaction when the bullet split the cocky MI6 agent’s brains out – and he enjoyed watching them scramble in fear and confusion, like a bunch of headless chicken.

There is only one agent remaining – the Dutchman who calls himself Agent Van Dijk. Jordan might have seen him in passing, always playing second or third fiddle to Colonel Rodgers, fading in the background. _‘How does it feel like to be hunted now, Agent Van Dijk?’_ Jordan ponders, as he lures Van Dijk into his trap. He tiptoes downstairs and shoots across the corridor at an empty target – before turning himself into bait. He stands in the middle of the corridor, all the while, counting silently inside his head, _‘Ten, nine, eight, seven…’_ he could hear footsteps coming towards him – _‘three, two,’_ he raises his arms up in the air as a gesture of surrender, and then – “One,” he says loudly, much to Agent Van Dijk’s confusion. Before Van Dijk could shoot Jordan, multiple shots are fired from the floor above, a deluge of bullets raining upon him.

Agent Van Dijk is dead in seconds.

Jordan runs back upstairs to find Adam, who lunges fiercely – knocking the breath out of him. “You,” Adam splutters when he finally lets Jordan go and hands him his Breitling. “Are they all dead?”

“Yeah,” Jordan clasps his Breitling back onto his left wrist distractedly. “Do you have chems in this house?”

“Huh?”

“Program meds. Blues, Greens. Do you have them here?”

Adam looks at Jordan as if he’s an idiot. “What? No, no— they’re not here!”

“What do you mean they’re not here?” Jordan asks, his tone of voice a tad too high in exasperation, as he pushes Adam back with his hands on the shorter man’s shoulders, causing Adam’s head to knock against the wall. “You must have them Doc, I need them. I need the chems!”

Jordan must have gripped Adam’s shoulders too roughly, because the other man is wincing. “Sorry,” he loosens his grip on Adam’s shirt, but he keeps a steady glare at the doctor, looking for any signs that Adam is lying.

“I don’t keep the meds here, Fourteen!”

Jordan draws a sharp breath and grabs Adam’s face in both of his hands, before staring into Adam’s eyes. _Fuck,_ he thinks. _He’s telling the truth._ “I’m such an idiot,” Jordan says, letting go of Adam’s face and pinching the bridge of his nose. He feels edgy, and he knows that the withdrawal shakes are coming on. He would be loath to use up his final blue pill until he knows for certain he could get more.

“Right,” he crouches at Adam’s feet, his fingers massaging his temples. His vision is getting blurry, and if he couldn’t keep it together, all this will be for nothing. From above him, Adam is still standing against the wall, watching him warily, but making little effort to run away. He still trusts Jordan.

_Good._

“Where, then?” Jordan asks, looking up at Adam. “Where do you keep the chems?”

Adam screws his eyes shut and shakes his head, his fists balled up beside him. “I don’t know! We do virology control, we don’t— I don’t know where the chems are, Fourteen.”

Jordan stands up and takes Adam’s fists in his hands, opening them up and clasps their palms together. “Look at me, Doc,” he says, gentler, calmer this time. “Look at me,” he coaxes Adam, until the older man opens his eyes and stares back into Jordan’s eyes. “You _do_ know,” Jordan says, realizing that his own desperation will not help Adam’s ability to think straight, not after what has happened to him in the last 72 hours. Poor guy hasn’t been able to catch a break. “You know, but you just can’t remember. But you need to, okay?”

Adam grips Jordan’s hands tightly to stop himself from shivering, nails digging into his flesh as he nods. “Listen, doc. You need to help me. These guys, they have backup. We need to clear out in ten minutes, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good, because the next thing that’s coming through that door is going to wipe us out.”

Jordan knows that they will figure out that something is wrong when Van Dijk fails to return or report Adam’s death. He and Adam could make a headstart by tricking them, but not for long.

“I’ll help you. Just tell me what to do.” Adam’s eyes are wide, his entire body is trembling, and it’s a wonder that he’s still able to stand. Jordan tries not to get distracted by the fact that this is the first time that he has seen Adam without his white, pristine labcoat, giving him the aura of the unattainable figure of authority. This is Adam’s house, he’s casually dressed in a striped sweater that are at least two sizes too big for him, all soft and delectable, and Jordan thinks, _fuck, I’m royally screwed._

“We need to burn this place down and make everyone think you’re dead. Say goodbye to your family, Adam. You won’t hear from them for a long time.” It’s the first time he’d said Adam’s name to him, but it feels natural to Jordan. It’s as if the name has always been familiar on the tip of his tongue, rather than the wretched Doc 20 epithet. He wants to tell Adam that it’s okay, that he’s lost his family too. _‘It’s okay, you’ve got me now,’_ Jordan thinks, but he knows that to Adam he is just another stranger, another agent, another number.

Jordan wishes to rectify this, as long as they’re given a chance to make it out alive.

 

* * *

 

_xi. twenty + fourteen_

 

The drive away from the burning house behind them is silent. Jordan has doused the entire floor with gasoline, but the honours of lighting the match goes to Adam – he owns the place, after all.

“Where are we going?” Adam asks, looking glum in the passenger seat.

Jordan checks his rearview mirror before concentrating on the empty road in front of him. “You tell me, Doc. I’ve helped you. Now you gotta tell me something. Anything.”

“I told you, I don’t know!” Adam insists.

“What’s your best friend’s name?”

“What?”

“Your best friend’s name from school, what is it?”

“What does it have to do with anything?”

“Please, Adam.”

“Callum,” Adam relents.

“Pick a place you lived. The last place you lived.”

“Southampton.”

“Good. Now if anyone asks, you’re Callum from Southampton. You lost your wallet, and I’m driving you home. My name is _Steven_ – you get that? Callum and Steven, yeah?”

Adam nods, staring blankly at the road ahead, before he turns his full attention at Jordan with curious intent. “Steven,” he repeats softly. Jordan spares him a quick glance. “Hmm?”

“Is that your name?” Adam asks timidly.

“What? No—,” Jordan frowns, before he remembers that Adam is at a disadvantage, because he has always known him by Fourteen. “It’s Jordan. But it’s really for the best that you call me Steven when we’re in public,” he says.

“How did you know my name?”

“Come on, Doc. It’s all over the news. Your colleague gunning down everyone and they called him mentally unstable. We both know that’s bullshit.”

“Why do they do this? Why are they doing this?” Adam mutters repeatedly under his breath, his fingers gripping his seatbelt too tightly that his knuckles have gone white.

“What’s going on is that they’re shutting the whole thing down. And they’re going to kill us too if you don’t help me,” Jordan says. He tries again. “Where do you keep the chems, Doc?”

“I told you, I don’t know!” Adam replies in exasperation. “I don’t have any!”

“So you don’t know anything,” Jordan rolls his eyes impatiently. “Is that why they were so persistent to try to kill you? Because you know _nothing?_ ”

“I know my job, which is _science,_ ” Adam reiterates heatedly. “I don’t know what you do when you leave the lab. None of us do!”

“You can’t be that naïve,” Jordan huffs in vexation.

It seems to be the last straw for Adam, because he immediately unclips his seatbelt. “Please, let me out of the car. Let me out.”

Jordan brakes so hard that the wheels screech on the tarmac, skidding off the road. He has never felt this frustrated in his entire life. “Fine. Get out,” Jordan steps out of the car and opens the door for Adam. “You don’t know anything, that’s okay. But you have a plan, right? You’re a doctor. An Oxbridge graduate. What are you going to do now? Are you going to run? You won’t be able to make it until sundown, not alone. You can’t hide either, not from people like this, not with all the resources they have.”

“Stop,” Adam grabs at Jordan’s wrist, as he shuts his eyes as if in pain. “I need to think.”

 But Jordan keeps going, because he’s angry, and he hasn’t been this angry in a long time. It’s probably unfair on Adam, because Jordan isn’t angry at him specifically, but he’s angry at himself, angry at Rodgers, the MI6; the entire universe. “Doctor 20 my ass. Who knew you had a name, right? Well, Doctor _Adam Lallana_ , all those agents are dead, Agent Seven’s gone AWOL. Your colleagues are dead. The MI6 wants us dead.  So now they think we are, but they’re not dumb. They will hunt for your body in that pile of rubble that was your house, and when they realize that it’s not there, they’ll be coming for you.”

Adam looks up at Jordan as if he has thrown daggers into his heart.

“Where does that leave you now? Gonna go public? Call your sister? Look where that got you. Call a guy who knows somebody at the _The Guardian_? Look where that got the journalist in New York. Put it online? They’re going to make you look like a whackjob, like your dead colleague.”

“Jordan,” Adam tugs at his wrist, “Listen to me. You have to understand. All the work at MELWOOD, all those tests, that is us tuning chemistry. We don’t fabricate anything – that happens downstream.”

“What do you mean, _downstream?_ ”

“You need live virus to seed adhesion,” Adam explains. “Cultures are highly reactive, you have to process on-site and we would never do it here.”

“Okay, on-site,” Jordan paces uneasily, his earlier anger slowly dissipating. “So where?”

“We can’t drive there,” Adam says pointedly.

“Where is it?”

“It’s in Penang Island,” Adam says softly, as if in defeat. “ _Malaysia._ ”

Jordan falls silent. He couldn’t even scream. All he could do is cover his face with both palms of his hands and grits his teeth as hard as he could, to stop himself from spouting expletives.

“Jordan,” Adam reaches for him, and pulls his hands away from his face. He is too close for comfort, and Jordan resists the urge to punch the shorter man in the face, although he couldn’t stop staring at Adam’s lips either— and he has to resist the urge to kiss him, too. “Where do you stand with your dosage?” Adam asks with genuine concern in his voice, ruffled by Jordan’s apparent state of mind.

“I have 300 milligrams of blues. It’s not even enough for another day. I haven’t had a full green in 51 hours, which is strange because I don’t feel physically degraded. But we’ll see.”

 _The greens and the blues,_ Jordan thinks.

He still remembers the time when he was given a basic explanation of how the pills work. Greens are for strength, agility, stamina – physical enhancements. Blues are for cognition, intelligence, concentration – adding at least 15 points to his IQ. Now he really will run out of them, and he doesn’t even want to think about the consequences.

“Wait, _wait,_ ” Adam grabs his shoulders and shakes him. “Did you say you’re still taking greens? You were viralled off physical meds last year. It’s only the blues that haven’t been viralled off, except for this rumoured new beta program the MI6 is running, but everyone else have been viralled off greens eight months ago,” he rambles on. “They infected you with live virus, a _vaccine,_ which means that physically, you’re stable. You don’t need to take greens, they locked it in. Any physical enhancement is now _permanent._ ”

Jordan couldn’t believe what he is hearing. “So, you infected me? When was this? Is this when I was sick? The mystery flu? That was you?”

“It wasn’t me,” Adam’s eyes widen, shaking his head fervently. “I didn’t do it.”

“I was dying!” Jordan explodes. “By myself! In a dingy tent in Morocco!”

“I’m sorry,” Adam apologizes sincerely, for what feels like the umpteenth time, “—but it wasn’t me, Jordan. It _wasn’t_ me.”

“Why am I still taking the green pills, then?” Jordan asks rhetorically.

“I don’t know, I thought you had stopped!”

“Back to the ‘I don’t knows’ again,” Jordan sighs, before fumingly kicking the tires of his car. “ _Great._ Why am I even asking you anything?”

“Jordan,” Adam tries to pull the younger man away from the car, “I really didn’t know they were still giving you greens. They must be placebos!”

“It’s to keep us on a leash, isn’t it?” Jordan asks, his voice coming out broken and strangled. “To keep a hold on us? To keep us _dependent?_ Who tells you that this is _okay?_ ”

“No one—,” Adam tries to say, but Jordan is too far gone in his wrath. “Who says that it’s okay?” Jordan repeats the question again and again, before kneeling at Adam’s feet, grasping at Adam’s hands as if asking for mercy. Jordan wants to cry, but there are no tears left.

“I do research. I design, I survey,” Adam says. “I don’t administer meds, I don’t make policy!”

“No, you just load the gun,” Jordan mumbles, but the hint of sarcasm is there. 

“Look, I was there for the science,” Adam tells Jordan. “We were _all_ there for science. And I know you don’t care,” he squeezes Jordan’s shoulders, “—but I made a huge sacrifice. I couldn’t publish, I couldn’t conference. I couldn’t tell a single person what it was I did,” Adam sniffles. “But I thought I was helping to save the world.”

Jordan stands up, and looks at Adam directly in the eyes. “You told me the single digit agents have been viralled off blues. That must have included Agent Seven, right? James Milner?”

“It was just a rumour. I only take care of agents ten to nineteen—,” Adam begins, but Jordan cuts him off. “Tell me you can viral off blues too. _Please?_ Can you viral off blues?”

Adam clears his throat. “Theoretically, yes. Pills allow for temporary adhesion,” he says, his mind suddenly brimming with ideas, alive and active. “To lock it in, you need live culture– live _virus!_ ”

“You know how to do that,” Jordan says, full of hope in his eyes.  “Do you know how to do that?”

“Yes,” Adam nods, as Jordan gets into the car and starts the engine. Adam ends up going back inside the car too, and clips his seatbelt on.

“Okay,” Jordan nods in return. “We’ll do that then,” he says, with a determined expression on his face.

“Yes,” Adam narrows his eyes sceptically, “—but I told you it’s on the other side of the planet!”

Jordan tilts his head and gives Adam the brightest smile he could afford, when everything else seems bleak in the horizon. “Well, guess where we’re going, then?”

 

* * *

 

 

_xii. rodgers_

 

Rodgers curses at the inefficiency of his men, as the Mersey police are now involved in the investigation of Dr Lallana’s house fire. He couldn’t even get his own men onto the scene, he’s not controlling the site, and he hates not knowing. Initial reports suggest that there is a dead man’s body in the burnt down house, but it will take days to identify the burnt corpse.

Worse, new reports have just come in that confirms multiple shell casings were found all over the house, together with three other corpses, all males.

Agent Van Dijk has failed to report for duty.

“Doctor Lallana is _alive,_ ” Rodgers tells Agent Wijnaldum, with an amount of certainty. “And someone is helping him. There is no way he could escape Van Dijk and Becker by himself,” he mutters, before shaking his head in dismay. “I can’t run this from here. I need a crisis suite. I need integrated grids and comms, I need all of it,” he orders his team. “Just get me something that could lead us to Adam Lallana.”

“Yes, sir,” Agent Wijnaldum nods, “—but who’s helping him? And why?”

“Don’t we all want to know?” Rodgers asks rhetorically.

 

* * *

_xiii. jordan + adam_

 

By nightfall, they have stopped at a cheap B&B to recuperate, and for Jordan to make the necessary arrangements before heading off to KL on the next available flight from Heathrow the next morning. After a meal that consists of instant noodles and cheap coffee, a shower, and chopping off his Mohawk, Adam sits barefooted in the middle of the twin-sized bed. It is the only room vacancy the B&B has for the night, which means that Jordan and Adam will have to share the bed to sleep. Jordan has fallen reticent following their argument during the first part of the drive here, but Adam thinks he has managed to patch things up with the man he once knew as Agent Fourteen.

Fourteen – no, _Jordan_ – has always been quiet, but that is part of his charm. Who knew that underneath the surface lies so much repressed anger, but Adam thinks he has let it all out, even if it is at Adam’s own expense of being screamed at. He remembers Robbo on that last day, when the chatty Scotsman has nudged him and wonders if Adam has a crush on Jordan. Watching Jordan now, as he works meticulously throughout the night to fix a fake passport for Adam, he couldn’t help but admire Jordan’s profile in the dim light of the dingy motel room. Earlier that night, after Adam has had a haircut, Jordan has taken a new passport photograph of Adam to fix onto a fake Australian passport, with visas from different countries stamped all over the pages. “Makes it look more authentic,” Jordan has told him enthusiastically.

“You’re staring,” Jordan says, a knowing smirk touching his lips. He is still concentrating on his work, but his earlier edginess has dissipated. Even during his health check-ups Jordan has always exuded some kind of intense energy that affects Adam, like some kind of transference and counter-transference, but there is nothing of that at this very moment, in this room. He feels comfortable, he feels _safe._

Adam swings his legs off the bed and walks towards Jordan’s workspace, pulling a chair by the table to see Jordan’s progress. “We’ve got a long day ahead of us,” Adam says. “You need to rest.”

“ _You_ need to rest,” Jordan raises an eyebrow, before letting out a sigh. “I’m—sorry I shouted at you. I didn’t mean to.”

“I’m sorry I’m so useless.”

Jordan immediately grinds to a halt at Adam’s words. He drops his gadgets, and stares at Adam in disbelief. “No, Adam,” Jordan grimaces, “—forget what I said about you not knowing anything. By essence, you’re so much cleverer than I am,” he says. “Me, I’m just a product of your Blues and Greens, the chemicals. The only reason I’m still alive is because of those bloody pills. I wouldn’t be here without you,” Jordan adds. “I can’t do this without you.”

Adam could feel his cheeks getting warmer from Jordan’s words, and the way Jordan gazes into his eyes as he says them. Adam has to look away, licking his lips nervously. “Ah. It’s a wonder, isn’t it? You’ve had some very minor alterations made to two different chromosomes,” he promptly changes the subject. “The green side – the physical side, is nothing more than a 1.5 percent rise in your mitochondrial protein uptake. But even with that you see this immediate increase in cellular tempo, muscle efficiency, oxygenation…”

Jordan smiles, decides he should play along. “And the blue side?”

“Intelligence, obviously. But it’s more than that,” Adam explains giddily. “It’s neural regeneration and elasticity. Sensory function. Pain suppression,” he smiles, but straightens himself up when he realizes that Jordan is watching him intently, with a strange expression on his face…almost akin to adoration. “It’s the most exciting development in genomic targeting in the history of science,” Adam finishes off, but Jordan continues to stare at him in silence.

He could do little else but grin stupidly.

And talk for hours. Adam could do that, just to fill up this silence, until Jordan gets bored of him and tells him to shut up.

“It’s a miracle they haven’t found us yet. And to think that we’re still alive…” Adam says, “I’m still alive because of you,” he adds, before picking up one of the ghost passports on the table and pretends to study them.

Jordan takes the passport away gently from Adam’s hands, before putting it away. Adam’s breath hitches when Jordan takes Adam’s hand and studies his calloused palm under the table light. “We’re just the lucky ones, I guess.”

“No, you’re just really, really good at what you do,” Adam says, before placing two fingers on Jordan’s radial pulse point. “You’re good at what you do too,” Jordan replies, his dark gaze unnerving, his voice steady— as steady as his pulse rate, beating against Adam’s fingers.

“I’ve examined you – so many times. Listened to your chest, prodded your tummy, pretending I don’t get affected when I see the bullet scars, pretending I don’t know what your day job is. I— I’ve thought a lot about what you said today, and I’ve failed you.”

Jordan closes his palm, trapping Adam’s hand within his own. “You’ve never failed me, Adam. In fact I’ve never been gladder that it was you who survived that gunman attack; that it was you who I came back for,” Jordan says. “I wanted to come back for you because of the meds, and I’m a selfish prick that way,” he confesses, “— _but_ – at the end of the day, there’s a reason why you survived that attack and it’s not just because you were lucky. You’re stronger; you have the resilience that they don’t. And if being in MELWOOD has taught me anything, it’s resilience that keeps you going. None of this depersonalisation, no attachments, no feelings bullshit. That’s what makes us humans, isn’t it? And I think _I’m_ the lucky one, because I get to see you again. I get to work with you again. I get to know your real name, Doctor Adam Lallana.”

“You sure have a way with words,” Adam chuckles. “And all this while I thought you were shy.”

“I’ve never been known to be a talkative kid.”

Adam smiles. “There’s always a first time for everything.”

“Go to sleep, Adam,” Jordan pulls his hand away, before resuming his work, albeit reluctantly. “Long day tomorrow, remember? I’ve been viralled of Greens, so I’m fine with not sleeping.”

A thought crosses Adam’s mind, and he couldn’t stop himself from asking. “Why do you have to stay enhanced? Why is it so important to you?”

Surprise flickers across Jordan’s face, and for a second Adam thinks that Jordan might shout at him again, causing him to shudder. Instead, Jordan types something onto his Mac and slides the laptop across the table for Adam to read.

An archived, obituary page on the British Army website – of Private First Class Jordan Henderson. Born 17 June 1990 in Sunderland. Died 5 June 2011 in Tripoli, Libya. “What is this?” Adam asks in a hoarse whisper.

“That was me.”

Adam’s gaze switches from the screen to Jordan’s face, not understanding his meaning.

“Before I was a MELWOOD agent, I was in the army. But before I was in the army, I was a hooligan. A punk. I didn’t know what to do with my life. I was forced to join the army to clean up. I was weak, I was stupid. Becoming a MELWOOD agent gave me _purpose._ ”

“Oh, Jordan,” Adam gasps.

“Have you ever seen a cognitive degrade, Adam? Sensory withdrawal? Pull someone’s blues and watch them drop off their meds?”

Adam shakes his head, tears beginning to fill up his eyes – but why is he crying? Fear? Sympathy? Sadness? Helplessness? Ignorance that this has all been happening around him, but he chooses to _not_ know?

Jordan reaches across and wipes a tear off the corners of Adam’s eyes with the pads of his thumbs, his touch lingers down Adam’s sharp cheekbones, before pulling his hand away again. “It paints a pretty graphic picture in training,” Jordan says, furrowing his brows – reminiscing of the past. “Hell of a long way to fall.”

He gazes up into Adam’s eyes, and purses his lips grimly. “If I can’t keep it together, we can’t make it.”

 

* * *

 

Adam has wanted to test Jordan, but he is the only ending up getting tested. He tries to close his eyes, but all he could hear is his own heartbeat ringing in his ears, or the warmth of Jordan’s hands against his cool fingers. When he hears Jordan slip beside him on the bed, he tries not to think much of it at all, except by God, _how could I have not noticed how devastatingly attractive he’d been in the past?_

In the past, it had all been light gossips with Trent and getting teased by Robbo, but it has never been more than a joke – that Fourteen, out of the nine agents he handled in the Institute, is the most unattainable. He’s always been polite, courteous, but also mysterious. He never lets out more than he should, except that one time when Adam found out that he loves football, and it felt like he has found a kindred spirit.

The joke’s on him, now – Fourteen is sleeping next to him, has saved his life more than one day, and now has a name.

_Jordan Henderson._

Adam would never have guessed _that_ as Fourteen’s real name, but it suits him anyway.

 

* * *

 

At Heathrow, Adam tries to blend in with the crowd as seamlessly as possible. He steers away from isolated areas, surveillance cameras. He hides his face in a cap and a face mask, pretends that he’s just a tourist heading out of the country to some exotic vacation destination.

Without Jordan here, he feels vulnerable and exposed, as it has never been his nature to be stealthy. But Jordan is right, they need to split up in public areas like the airport, to avoid causing more suspicion. If they get caught, it’s better not to be caught _together._

He walks through the security checkpoints first, not knowing if Jordan is behind him, if Jordan’s here at all. Adam has to take his mask off as the guard scans checks his passport and boarding pass, before letting him through – and at least for now, Adam could let out a breath of relief. What he doesn’t know is Jordan is queuing up in a different line behind him, but always watching his six, always _aware._

Adam has passed the first hurdle. He makes his way towards the food court and pulls out a paperback thriller he’s pinched from the B&B yesterday night, pretending to read. Suddenly the cheap cellphone that Jordan has bought for him yesterday – begins to vibrate in the pockets of his jeans – and Adam almost jumps in shock. He fishes it out and stares at the caller ID, satisfied that it’s a number he knows, before pressing the phone against his ear.

“Where are you?” he hisses into the phone.

Jordan’s voice is heaven to his ears. They’ve only been separated for an hour, and already Adam thinks this is hell. “I’m right behind you,” Jordan tells him. Adam automatically moves his chair to look, and sees only a glimpse of Jordan in his leather jacket and cap, before he receives a stern warning.

“Don’t turn around,” Jordan cautions. “You’re going to stay right here until it’s time to board, okay?”

Adam nods, as if Jordan could see him.

And then, in a gentler tone, Jordan says, “You’re doing great.”

Adam nods again, feeling another blush coming on. He doesn’t know why, but getting praised by Jordan seems like the highest honour he could receive – as if it is only Jordan who is able to validate his actions, as if everything else is nulled.

Except that in the last twenty four hours, everything else _has_ been null, and it is _only_ Jordan who is able to validate Adam’s actions. Adam has a reason to be fucked up.

“You see that corridor on your right?” Jordan asks, waking Adam from his reverie. Adam glances at where Jordan is indicating, and says, “Yeah.”

Jordan continues, “You’re gonna want to find somebody who’s walking that way and just tag along. Keep moving, keep your head down, and I’ll see you on the plane.”

And then, silence. “Jordan?” Adam whispers. “Hello?”

He turns around again, but Jordan is no longer there.

_Well, shit._

 

* * *

_xiv. malaysia_

 

Rodgers is having a nightmare. The only consolation he has is word from Agent Wijnaldum that the canine team has tracked Adam from his house, through a wooded area to a parking lot – where a car likely has picked him up. There were security cameras on the front streets, but nothing back there – and Rodgers slams his hands on the table in frustration.

“There’s got to be satellite footage!” he demands, but another agent replies, “Liverpool’s not exactly a high-value target, sir.”

Rodgers scoffs.  “You think I don’t know that? There’ll be plenty of weather imaging, but we’re gonna have to swing a little wider, to find something real-time, that’s enhanceable. Get me some foreign platforms, and give me something concrete,” Rodgers orders.

“We need about an hour to do that, sir.”

“Then get going!” Rodgers points to the door, asking his agents to leave. “Wijnaldum, you stay here with me.”

Wijnaldum purses his lips worriedly. “Sir, he’s definitely not pulling this off on his own.”

Rodgers knows this without saying. The question is, who the hell is helping Adam?

 

* * *

 

At the airport, Jordan watches as Adam queues at the gate and boards the plane. He waits several minutes before joining the line, and keeps his head down, pretending to admire the scenery outside the glass windows of the airport, at all the airplanes at outside the terminal.

When he finally boards the plane, he scans the seats to find Adam, and lets out a sigh of relief when he sees the familiar face, as Adam puts on a headphone and rests his head against the back rest. He tips his head slightly, as a sign of recognition, before he moves forward past Adam, to his own seat at 13-B.

He’s just waiting for take-off, hopes that they’ll reach KLIA safely, and get to Penang ASAP.

Against all odds, he has a strong conviction that they _will_ pull this off.

 

* * *

 

In Rodgers’s crisis suite, the agents are scrambling to put the pieces of information they have gathered together. On the large screen is a low-res screencap of an image they pulled off the forestry satellite – of Adam entering a black Vauxhall, in the passenger seat – but the image of the driver is just a shadow. They managed to track the car for about fifty miles east, before the satellite lost them.

“Right,” Rodgers taps his feet as he plans his next move. “We’ve got surveillance footage, racked and ready to go. We’re gonna split teams, find this car and link up a trail.”

“With a 17 hour headstart?” an agent asks. “Where the hell could he go?”

Rodgers ignores him.

A few hours of phone calls and gathering more footage from police cameras, traffic cameras, toll exits, everything they could get their hands on – and finally, Rodgers hits a jackpot. Agent Brewster hollers, “That’s our car, that’s our Vauxhall!” he points to his screen.

“Where the fuck is this?” Rodgers asks, as he sees the same black Vauxhall from earlier, entering a parking lot structure. He still could not make out the face of the driver, and from here he could barely convince himself that the man in the passenger seat is Adam Lallana.

“Jesus, they’re _here!”_ Agent Wijnaldum says, in utter disbelief. His tie is askew, his hair in disarray. “They’re in _London_. All this while searching in the north and they’ve been in front of our _fucking_ noses,” he throws his pen onto the desk, which clatters against the keyboards and coffee mugs.

“Where exactly is this?” Rodgers asks calmly, refusing to respond to Wijnaldum’s emotional outburst.

Agent Brewster replies, “Heathrow, chief.”

“Check all the security cameras off that airport. International terminals first,” Rodgers tells his agents, crisp and clear. “Get me the details of all departures. I wanna know where he’s going, you understand?”

 

* * *

 

As soon as they hit KLIA, Adam and Jordan head separately towards the domestic departure lounge – they’ve been cleared through immigration, and now all they need is to get a connecting flight to Penang.

When they arrive at the Penang International Airport, they pretend not to see each other until both have safely exited the airport terminals and waiting outside at the taxi rank, where Jordan is already standing, looking at his watch, worried that Adam might be _lost._ A few minutes pass and Adam finally appears; smiles of relief on each other’s lips as they clap eyes on one another.

Jordan couldn’t help but notice the slight spring in Adam’s step as he approaches him, the way Adam clings to him after being apart for nearly an entire day. Adam’s arm casually slings around his waist, while they breathe in the warm, humid air of the Penang coast – smelling of a mixture of petrol and the ocean. He rests his head against Adam’s shoulder, allowing himself a small moment of affection, a tiny gesture to celebrate a small victory.

Even then, Jordan could feel himself getting drained. He’s taken his last blue pill just before departure to KL, and he hopes it will last enough just until Adam helps to viral him off – for their sake, he needs to survive this.

As they queue for a cab, Jordan looks up at Adam and realizes that even after all that’s been said and done, his entire future, his life lies in Adam’s hands.

“You okay?” Adam asks.

Jordan pretends to be okay. “Yeah,” he balls up his fists to hide the tremors in his hands. _Shit shit shit not now._ “You ready?” he asks, and if Adam notices the tremble in his voice, he doesn’t say anything.

“I’m ready,” Adam says.

 

* * *

 

“Pull that image up,” Rodgers orders his men— as he studies the footage of the dark-haired man at the Heathrow security clearance line. It is unmistakable – “That’s him,” Agent Wijnaldum points out. “That’s our doctor.”

“I want immediate upload on that passenger manifest,” Rodgers commands. “Where is he heading?”

“Kuala Lumpur,” an agent reads off her screen, studying the details of Adam’s flight ticket – and his fake name, on his fake Australian passport. “He took the Emirates flight to Kuala Lumpur.”

“Malaysia?” Agent Wijnaldum raises an eyebrow.

“Sir,” the same agent who informed Rodgers of Adam’s destination says, “—he landed an hour ago.”

“Why _Malaysia?_ ” Agent Wijnaldum continues to contemplate by himself.

Rodgers paces up and down the suite, his mind spinning. “There are 243 passengers on that flight. The person who’s helping Dr Lallana must be on that plane too. We’re going to scope every one of them right now. So pick a face that you like, pull it down, and deselect it if you’ve cleared it,” he tells his agents firmly. “If there is anything that smells wrong to you, if there’s a hair out of place that you don’t like, you do not clear it. You flag it and you send it over to Wijnaldum, and we’ll check it out.”

 

* * *

 

They arrive at the chemical plant at Bayan Lepas— just a few kilometres away from the airport, at about 2115 hours.  It is late hours to show up unannounced at the factory, which is another one of Adam’s anxiety – the guards will know something is up if Adam just casually strolls up and says that he wants to open up the lab at this time of night.

Jordan reassures Adam that everything will be fine if they just continue to act natural. “We’ve bluffed our way through the security of three airports,” Jordan says. “We’re going to bluff our way into this one, too,” he promises, with the steadiest voice he could muster. He could feel his concentration fading, and he is struggling to stay alert – but Adam’s grip on his arm reminds him that he couldn’t give up now, he needs to stay fighting.

“Whatever happens tonight,” Adam whispers, “I want to know that I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me.”

Jordan clasps their fingers together and caresses Adam’s knuckles with the pad of his thumb, before lifting their joined hands to his lips and presses a soft kiss on the back of Adam’s hand.

“We’re going to get through this,” Jordan promises.

 

* * *

 

The look on the guard’s face at the security gate is one of confusion. “Dr Lallana?” he asks, as Adam and Jordan ambles up casually towards him, flashing their clearance badges and their best charming smiles.

“Good evening,” Jordan begins. “Dr Lallana and I are here to open up the lab, please.”

The guard studies Jordan up and down, before he turns his attention towards Adam. “Dr Lallana? It’s me, Gopal,” the guard says, with a bright smile on his face. “Didn’t expect you here! How are you?”

Jordan glances at Adam, who appears to recognize this guard – likely from his previous visits to this chemical plant a few years ago. This could go either way. “Gopal!” Adam reciprocates the guard’s friendly introduction. “Hello, how are you?”

“I’m good, I’m good. Welcome back!”

“Thanks,” Adam smiles sheepishly. Jordan ends up smiling too, following Adam’s obvious lead.

“I’m sorry,” Gopal frowns, “—but I just don’t have you on my list arriving,” he says, as he flips through the names on his clipboard.

Jordan salvages the situation by explaining, “That’s because we had to change our schedule.”

“Yeah,” Adam clears his throat. “We had to take an earlier flight.”

“Gopal,” Jordan offers his hand, “I’m Dr Gerrard, by the way. It’s nice to meet you.”

Gopal eyes Jordan warily, before shaking his hand. “Pleased to meet you too, but Dr Cheng isn’t here – he went to Singapore. He just left yesterday. Everyone else have gone home, no one told me anything,” he rambles worriedly.

“Right, well—,” Jordan shrugs, “I understand. But we’re going to be here all week, and we have a lot of work to do. So we need to get in there tonight and get things started, okay?”

Gopal is still hesitating. “Yeah, of course – but it’s just that…”

“You can call Dr Cheng if you want,” Adam intervenes smoothly. “I just don’t want to put you on the spot.”

Gopal’s eyes widen, as he looks at Adam and Jordan while deciding what to do, thinking quickly on his feet. “No,” he says, “We don’t have to do that.”

Jordan grins. “Okay, great.”

“It’s just the two of you?” Gopal asks, as he presses the button to let them in.

Adam clutches on Jordan’s hand tightly as they are given access into the compound, and says, “Yeah.

 

* * *

 

“Hold up, hold up!” Agent Wijnaldum yells from his workstation, and pulls the passport photograph up on the main large screen. “Seat 13-B, Steven Gerrard.”

Rodgers thinks he could hear his heart skip a beat when he is confronted by that expressionless face on his screen, of a man he thought was dead. It’s as if he’s being haunted by a ghost. The entire crisis suite falls silent, so silent that you could hear a penny drop.

 “I need support staff to clear the room,” Rodgers orders – but he is no longer sure of himself. When he sees some of the men faltering, not knowing what to do, he yells an irritated, “Stand up and walk, now!”

“Move, move,” Agent Wijnaldum says, as he opens the door for the support staff to clear out the crisis suite. “Anyone who doesn’t have Level 5 clearance, get out,” he hollers.

“Who the hell is he?” Agent Brewster asks, after everyone has left and there are only five of them left in the suite.

“He’s a MELWOOD agent,” Rodgers rubs his eyes tiredly. “That’s Agent Fourteen.”

“I thought they’re all dead?” Agent Brewster asks dubiously.

“He’s _supposed_ to be dead,” Rodgers tells Brewster acerbically. He should have known that it was too easy, when the drones caught Fourteen at the Alps. He should have known that it wouldn’t be the last time he heard from the punk.

“Fuck,” Wijnaldum says, as realization dawns on him. “He’s looking for meds.”

“What?”

“That’s where the chems come from,” Wijnaldum explains, panic beginning to bubble in his throat. “What else would he be doing? And Dr Lallana’s got to be helping him.”

“But _how?”_ Brewster asks. “How is that possible?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Rodgers replies irritably. “Are the meds there? We’ve viralled off the remaining agents for our beta program, there _shouldn’t_ be any chems there.”

“But we _did_ viral off those agents _there,_ didn’t we? The stems are there,” Wijnaldum says, verbalising explicitly what is playing on Rodgers’s mind. “The _vaccines_ are there.”

“Good lord,” Brewster’s eyes widen in shock. “He’s going to viral him out.”

At that statement, Rodgers snaps and stands up briskly. “Thank you, gentlemen, for your input. I’ve got a phone call to make,” he says. “Bring me the phone,” he tells Brewster. “Put Cairo on the line.”

 

* * *

 

Wijnaldum posts two photographs of Adam and Jordan on the company network, and phones the night supervisor of the chemical plant at Bayan Lepas. He informs the supervisor, an elderly man in his early 70s named Hodgson – that they have a security breach, and they should be careful.

“I need to know if either of these two men has tried to enter…” Wijnaldum tells the man on the other end of the line, but is taken aback when Hodgson replies, “Yeah, we’re on it.”

“Excuse me?”

“We’re on the case,” Hodgson explains. “Our gatehouse just passed in two doctors. I think one of them might be that doc from your shootout in Liverpool.”

“Well,” Wijnaldum says lividly, “—where are they now?”

“We keep all of our client labs downstairs, so we’re assuming they’ve gone into the basement. I just sent a couple of boys down to check it out.”

Rodgers, who is listening intently to this conversation, shakes his head silently and indicates to Wijnaldum to tell Hodgson to stop. “No, no,” Wijnaldum says, desperate. “No, _no._ Lock the lab and keep them down there. Do not try to take him, you understand?”

 

* * *

 

In the basement lab, Adam carefully takes out a live virus culture from the fridge and inserts it into a syringe, before replacing the needle at the tip of the syringe with one of a finer tip, and looks at Jordan fondly. “Cheers, Adam,” Jordan says, as he sits by the table, rolling up his sleeve to reveal his deltoid muscle.

“I don’t even know if this is going to work.”

“Just do it, Doc. I believe in you,” Jordan says, before Adam cleans the area he is going to inject with an antiseptic swab. All that scraping and prodding, all those years ago – when he was still Agent Fourteen and Adam was still Doc 20, and it all falls down to this.

“Ready?” Adam asks.

“Always,” Jordan smiles faintly.

He winces when the needle pricks deep into his muscle, and he could feel the cool, strange sensation as Adam injects the vaccine in. After a few seconds, Adam pulls the needle out and throws the syringe into the sharps bin. “How does it feel?”

“Cramp, but I think I’ll be fine,” Jordan says, as he abducts and flexes his right shoulder joint. He’s about to put his jacket back on when a guard suddenly appears at the end of the door, shining a flashlight at them. “Hello?”

“Hey, guys,” Adam grins nervously, when he sees that there is not one, not two, but at least six guards surrounding them.

“You can’t be down here,” one of the guards tells them sternly, shining his flashlight directly into Jordan’s face, hurting his eyes. “Do you have clearance for this level? Nobody’s supposed to be down here.”

Adam leaps up to Jordan’s defence. “ _I’m_ supposed to be down here. I’m Dr Lallana. We’re in the middle of a sampling audit.”

“It’s not safe for you guys to be here,” Jordan adds, as if he _is_ meant to be here. “Let’s straighten this out upstairs,” he says, as a guard approaches them and starts to fiddle with Adam’s equipment, including the syringes and the vials containing the blue vaccines. “Don’t touch that,” Jordan warns, but the guard hits his hand and grabs his wrist to stop him. “Pack it up, let’s go.”

“Look, nobody touches _anything,_ ” Adam says, as he puts both arms up as a sign of surrender, but he refuses to budge from where he’s standing.

“Come on, just follow us,” one of the other guards says in aggravation.

“I’m not going to sit here and argue with you. I’m going to call your boss, and we’re going to figure it out,” Jordan says, but the guard persists at pulling his arms and trying to get him to move. He glances up at Adam and shakes his head, as if saying, _‘Sorry, Adam,_ ’ before punching the guard in the face and dodges another attack from the other two guards who are coming for him.

Adam lunges at the guard who attempts to apprehend him, and knees the poor bloke in the gut, while another guard tries to choke him from behind. He slips away just as Jordan drops another one-two jab on the guard’s stomach, before finishing the last guard off by twisting his neck. Jordan’s movements are too swift, Adam doesn’t even have the time to register what is happening – and he is reminded of the day the MI6 agents had been in his house in Knutsford and the commotion that Jordan had caused.

“You okay?” Jordan asks, but Adam could see that there is a new kind of weariness in Jordan’s eyes, something he has never witnessed before, not even after their escape from Liverpool. “I’m okay,” he tells Jordan. “Are you?”

Adam receives his answer by Jordan’s sudden stumble backward, as he grips the edge of the table for support. “The vaccine is kicking in. We need to get you out of here; we need you to get some rest.”

“Do you know the way out of here? They will have blocked off the main exits by now,” Jordan mumbles, as he tries to swallow. His throat is dry, it feels like he’s swallowing gravel – and it hurts.

Adam looks around and tries to think. He has never spent enough time here to know the emergency exit routes, _unless –_

His gaze flickers towards the fire alarm button, and he knows what he has to do. “You’re going to love me,” he tells Jordan, who is struggling to stay awake. “Stay with me, Jordan. Can you walk? I’m going to help you walk. I’m going to get us out of here, okay?”

Jordan nods weakly.

Adam breaks the glass and pushes the alarm button, causing havoc throughout the entire factory and its workers, as the fire alarm begins to blare in every part of the building. The motherfuckers will have no choice but to let _everyone_ out.

 

* * *

 

When Hodgson reports to Agent Wijnaldum that Adam and Jordan have escaped, Wijnaldum explodes. “I ask you to do one thing, Hodgson. Just one thing. Just lock them up in your bloody factory, and you can’t even do that. And to think that you had them!”

“They activated the fire alarm. My factory workers – three hundred of them at least – are all scrambling to get out. It’s like finding a needle in a haystack, and they must have escaped during the commotion.”

“Excuses,” Wijnaldum spits acridly.

“My security guards are not MI6, Gini,” Hodgson retorts. “If you want them so badly, come get them yourself.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you _too,_ ” Hodgson responds sharply, before hanging up.

“Fourteen can’t get far,” Wijnaldum comments, after he is left contemplating his other options to try and capture Adam and Jordan. “If he didn’t viral out, he’s going to run out of brain. And, if he did, then he’s going to be too sick to move. So, we just have to find him fast, and kill him – once and for all.”

Rodgers takes a deep breath, before deciding that the time to fool around is over – it’s time to play his best card. “We need to talk about RED.”

“RED?” Brewster asks, in the background.

“Agent Eleven is in Cairo,” Wijnaldum says. “It’s a two-hour flight. Rodgers has phoned to make the necessary arrangements to get him out there; I just need to pick up the phone again to fully green light it.”

“I thought RED was a beta program, it’s just a rumour!” Brewster says, flabbergasted.

“ _RED_ is MELWOOD without the inconsistency, without the emotional noise,” Rodgers tells him. “Amped mission fidelity, minimized empathy. It’s looking very strong for us – we’ve never seen evaluations like this.” Mo Salah, the first man Rodgers recruited for Operation MELWOOD in Port Said, codenamed Agent Eleven – also the first agent to be recruited into the next-generation supersoldier program, Operation RED. The first agent to be viralled off Blues and Greens, and now, the first RED agent to be sent out on a mission.

“This went from something I don’t know about to something on the drawing board, and now you’re telling me it’s up and running?” Agent Brewster asks.

“It’s up and running,” Rodgers says firmly, folding his arms as Wijnaldum makes the final phone call to Cairo. “Consider yourself informed, Agent Brewster.”

 

* * *

 

Keeping his head down, Adam slips out furtively from the building— together with at least fifty other factory workers, who are trying to escape the ‘fire’. With Jordan limping by his side, Adam has to help support him, until he manages to stop a cab after ten minutes of walking in light rain. Heading straight for George Town, they eventually stop at a cheap lodging house on Macalister Road, on a row of shophouses. While Adam haggles the room prices with the Chinese owner of the establishment, Jordan leans against his wide shoulders and mumbles to his ear, “Just give him what he wants, Adam.”

As soon as they reach the room, Adam struggles to get Jordan out of his drenched clothes, before towelling him off to dry. Jordan’s breathing is heavy, his muscles are aching. “Jordan,” Adam says, “You can’t fall asleep yet. You need to eat something – you need to keep yourself hydrated. Here, drink this,” Adam places a water bottle to Jordan’s lips, and tilts it so he could drink properly. Jordan splutters and coughs as he pushes the water bottle away, but still holds onto Adam’s hand like his life depends on it. “We’re going to get through this, right?” Jordan asks, his voice hoarse and feverish.

“Yes, yes we will. You will. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met – and I don’t just mean physically. You’re strong here,” Adam points to Jordan’s head, “—and here,” to his heart, “—too.”

The last time he was in this situation, he was alone in Marrakesh – and he really thought he was going to die. At least, if he dies tonight, he would have Adam – an _angel_ , if angels do exist in this world, by his side. Adam has kindly lent his lap to serve as a pillow for Jordan’s head, his fingers carding through Jordan’s sweaty hair. The rain is still pouring outside, and Jordan thinks he could see lightning from outside the window – before the sound of thunder jolts them both. “I’ve never been great with thunderstorms—,” Adam chuckles, “—and my sister told me I used to cry as a kid when it happened.”

“You’re not crying now,” Jordan whispers.

“I want to be stronger for you. I don’t want you to see me cry, not over stupid things like thunderstorms.”

Adam falls silent, and for a moment Jordan thinks that he has fallen asleep. But then Adam leans forward and downwards to check up on Jordan, and their upside-down gazes meet. “If I don’t survive this—,” Jordan begins, but Adam is having none of it. “Jordan…” Adam trails off, before Jordan cuts him off. “No, listen. I’m serious. There’s £40,000 in the lining of my jacket,” he tells Adam. “In my rucksack, there are passports. Two blanks and three ghosts, and there’s my Breitling watch, too.”

“No, don’t talk like that,” Adam shakes his head fervently.

“Adam, look at me,” Jordan rolls over, before sitting up to cup Adam’s face in his hands. It reminds him of the first day they were reunited, at Adam’s house in Knutsford, when the sun was bright and he had gripped Adam’s face too tightly. Jordan is gentler now, as he is awash with feelings of affection and fondness for this man— and in this light, Adam is so goddamned beautiful, even after the hardships they’ve been through in the last few days. Even without the different hairstyles or the white coat, even when he’s just Adam Lallana – a real human being, instead of Doctor 20, the object of his immature fantasies.  Jordan wants Adam to survive, more than anything. He doesn’t want to be a burden for Adam, not when he’s weak – like _this._ “You can make it,” Jordan says. “You’re a warrior. You can make it, okay?” he tells Adam, as the other man closes his eyes and leans into his touch. “Stay small. No airports. Just blend in like you know, okay? You’ve done enough for me.”

There are tears brimming in Adam’s eyes, but he refuses to admit that he is crying. “No, Jordan—I—,” he starts, but Jordan shushes him. “Spare your tears for someone who truly deserves it,” Jordan says, and then, a quieter, “—please go, Adam. You’ve done enough for me.”

He leans forward and presses their foreheads together— Adam’s hands at his nape, Jordan’s own hands resting on Adam’s waist. “You’re unwell,” Adam murmurs against his lips, but it isn’t exactly a kiss. “You’re not thinking straight. In what world do you think that I would ever leave you?”

The last thing Jordan remembers before falling into deep unconsciousness is a pair of gentle hands soothing his hair, and a press of cool lips against his forehead. When he opens his eyes, he thinks he sees Adam sleeping beside him, although didn’t he tell the stubborn guy to leave already?

So why wouldn’t Adam leave?

 _‘Because he needs you, you moron. And you need him,’_ a voice inside his brain tells him.

For a second Jordan thinks he is back where it all started, in a bright hospital room with surveillance cameras at every corner, in what seems to either be a penitentiary or a hospital – he has never really known what the place actually is.

In this dream, his face hurts. He couldn’t open his left eye and could barely see through his right eye. He is badly injured, even moving an inch felt like torture. He is being filmed by a military officer, who must have been one of Colonel Rodgers’s men – but he never knows how his interviewer looked like. All he could hear is a voice, from the speaker inside the room.

_“Are you comfortable?” the voice has asked._

_“Yes, sir,” Jordan lied._

_“You don’t look comfortable.”_

_Jordan shifted slightly. “No, sir.”_

_“What’s your name?”_

_“Jordan.”_

_“Your full name, Private.”_

_“Jordan Henderson, sir.”_

_A pause, then: “Where are you from, Jordan?”_

_“When?”_

_“Before you enlisted.”_

_“Sunderland,” Jordan blinked. He waited for another question, but none came – so he came up with his own. “Is this a test?”_

_“Yes, it is.”_

_“If I pass, can I stay here?” Jordan asked._

_“Do you want to stay?”_

_“Yes, sir.”_

_“That’s good to know.”_

 

* * *

 

Jordan’s eyes flicker open – it is quiet outside. He could see the city streetlights from the windows, and beside him, Adam is sleeping soundly. He still feels weak, feels like dying – just like that day in Marrakesh, but at least this time, Adam is here with him.

_My sweet, strong, beautiful Adam._

And Jordan wonders, if he passes this test, could he stay here, with Adam?

 _‘Do you want to stay?’_ a voice asks him, from the back of his mind.

 _Yes,_ Jordan thinks.

And that’s good to know.

 

* * *

 

Jordan is still sleeping when Adam leaves the room, tiptoeing quietly so as not to disturb him. He goes out early in the morning to top up on their mineral water supplies, and to buy paracetamols from a pharmacy just a few shops away from their own lodging. He is just paying for them when he sees a bunch of policemen dressed in riot costumes running past the entrance of the pharmacy, and that’s also when he notices that the area has already been cordoned off. He doesn’t even wait for the lady at the counter to give him his change when he storms out of the pharmacy, to discover that the police are already closing in on the entrance of his lodging.

Adam has to do something. _Anything._

He doesn’t even know if Jordan’s fever has broken, if Jordan even has the strength to stand up and walk, but Adam has to _try._

“Jordan, _run!_ ” Adam screams at the highest possible pitch, which instantaneously catches the cops’ attention. He drops the water bottles and boxes of paracetamols, running the opposite way from where the police have put the barriers up, and slips into a back alley full of people’s hanging laundry. He accidentally breaks into the kitchen of an elderly Malay lady, who is babysitting her two grandchildren in the living room watching early morning cartoons. “Sorry,” he bows, “—just passing through,” he bows and bows to the kids before escaping through the front door.

He runs and runs, zigzagging between different alleys and avoiding the main streets, until he’s sure that either the police have lost him or the acute realization that he is lost, himself. He stops to catch a breath when a sudden weight falls on top of him, that someone has jumped out from someone else’s flat window, at least from two floors up, causing the both of them to land unceremoniously on the wet tarmac. He rolls over to see the man already standing, holding a hand to help him up. “Jordan!” Adam shrieks in horror.

“Hullo, Adz,” Jordan grins.

“You’re—alive! And healthy!” Adam has never wanted to kiss that smirk off Jordan’s lips more than at that moment, but propriety and the situation doesn’t allow him to.

“By the way, I think you just woken up the entire neighbourhood with that scream,” Jordan teases him, as he pulls Adam’s hand and runs into another back alley – and stops when he sees a parked Suzuki underbone motorcycle, a _Kapcai,_ just around the corner. “Have you been on one of these?”

“I’ve been on motorbikes,” Adam says, because it’s the truth. His nose scrunches in doubt. “Just not these ones!”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” Jordan winks, before hopping onto the bike and revs the engine. He hands the helmet to Adam. “Hold on tight,” he grabs Adam’s hands and tells him to wrap his arms around Jordan’s waist.

Jordan rides the bike like a man on a mission, cutting corners and breaking at least thirty Malaysian road rules— starting from the fact that he’s not wearing a helmet, or speeding, or not stopping at the red light. Behind him, Adam holds on tight for his life, as he closes his eyes and tries not to scream.

The police sirens begin to echo behind them, as Jordan swerves the bike and tricks the cops into thinking that he’s going into one direction, when he’s actually going the opposite way. Jordan cleverly avoids the traffic of the main streets and enters smaller roads leading into different villages, before cutting back into the main road at Batu Feringgi, on the north western side of the island.

“Have we lost them?” Jordan asks.

“Yeah, we’ve lost them, I think,” Adam says, before a gunshot cracks the bike’s right side mirror. “Shit, what was that?” Adam shrieks. “Who was that?”

Jordan looks briefly behind him and he immediately knows that the stakes are infinitely higher, this time. Another gunshot barely misses the top of Adam’s head, and Jordan swerves even more maniacally on the streets, as Adam ducks to save his life. Adam glances behind him and sees a tall man in a leather jacket and aviators, riding a 125 Kawasaki motorbike that looks far more advanced and sturdier than the one that Adam and Jordan are on. In his right hand is a gun, and he’s aiming straight at Jordan’s head.

“Shit, that’s not the police,” Adam observes, in horror. “And he has a gun!”

“Thanks for the running commentary, Adam,” Jordan says, before making a dangerous turn to the left, nearly colliding with a car from the opposite side. “Much appreciated.”

“Fuck, can you lose him?”

Jordan glances at his intact left side mirror and sees that the man is taking another aim. “I’m trying. _Duck,_ ” he shouts, before another bullet whizzes past them. Jordan enters another village and Adam finds himself surrounded by mountains and paddy fields, away from the coastal line and tourist trap spots.

“I know him,” Jordan says, as he makes another turn and slips behind a village house, asks Adam to get off and changes onto a different motorcycle.

“What?” Adam asks, ask they climb onto their second motorcycle, still a _Kapcai_ , but less shabby than the first one.

“He was a MELWOOD agent,” Jordan explains as he starts the engine.

“I thought you were all dead?”

“Remember what you said about single digit agents and them being transferred to a different program? That’s Agent Eleven.”

Jordan takes another shortcut that brings them back closer to the coastline, but still far away from the busy markets, the hotels, the sandy beaches. For a moment, Adam thinks that they have lost Agent Eleven, but another shower of bullets rain upon them – and one hitting the back tyre of Jordan’s bike, causing them to veer sharply, completely knocked off the vehicle and landing on the opposite side of the road. Jordan stands up first and grabs hold of Adam, before running into the bushes, downhill, where they could see a small jetty at the coast and fishermen boats, but no one is in sight.

They hide quietly in the bushes, waiting for the perfect moment to ambush Agent Eleven, when he comes. At the slight sound of ruffling leaves, Jordan jumps the Egyptian man and attempts to rid him of his Beretta, but not before Agent Eleven firing off several stray rounds into the air during the scuffle. He manages to grab hold of Jordan’s neck and chokes him, before attempting to shoot, but the next round is empty – Jordan and Agent Eleven is level, now. No guns – just hand-to-hand combat, but Jordan knows he is at a disadvantage.

Jordan throws a punch straight into Agent Eleven’s gut, but it doesn’t appear to hurt him in the slightest. The slighter man aims for Jordan’s windpipe, but Jordan is quicker to dodge the attack, and kicks behind Agent Eleven’s leg, causing him to lose his balance. Jordan tries to kick him in the face, but Agent Eleven manages to catch him and twists Jordan’s own leg, causing the older man to scream in pain.

They wrestle for a few more seconds before the wet earth from previous day’s torrential rain causes them to slip, rolling downhill in a pile of mud, and Jordan finds himself at the rocky coast, where he’d seen the jetty with fishermen boats tied to the pier earlier.

It seems endless, with them throwing punches at each other, but neither backing down due to the lack of pain and increased endurance.

“You don’t remember, do you?” Jordan screams at Agent Eleven’s bloodied face. “You don’t remember anything!”

His words don’t affect the Egyptian in the slightest. If anything, it makes Agent Eleven even more determined to finish him off, as he tugs at Jordan’s shirt and tries to knock his head against the ground. Agent Eleven is too strong for Jordan; he doesn’t think he could match Eleven’s physical prowess despite his slighter build. The Egyptian man has reached for a lead pipe that must have washed up on the shore— to smash Jordan’s head in. Before he could deliver the final blow, someone thrusts a machete – a _parang,_ straight into Agent Eleven’s chest from behind, twisting it deep and pulling it out again.

Agent Eleven has turned his back to pursue his attacker, but Jordan uses the abandoned lead pipe and knocks him out before he could hurt Adam. Agent Eleven falls lifeless to the ground, his blood spilling on the shores of Batu Feringghi, where the MI6 will refuse to even acknowledge his existence – not after his death, not like this.

“Adam,” Jordan splutters, his vision hazy from the trauma to his head – but even then he could see Adam with the bloodied machete still in his hands, as he tries to compute what it was he had just done.

“Jordan, you alright?” Adam asks, although Jordan knows that he himself isn’t.

“I’m okay, Adam. Are you?”

Adam nods.

“The machete,” Jordan says, licking at his bloodied lip, tasting copper. “You have to get rid of the evidence.”

Adam stares at the weapon, before throwing it into the murky waters of the jetty. “How about the body?”

“We drown him,” Jordan says coldly. He would have wanted a proper burial for his colleague, because he knows that once, Agent Eleven was a good man. The person underneath, without the chems would have wanted to be buried properly, would have wanted to be a hero. Jordan thinks, that’s why he had that fake, lavish funeral five years ago – because this job would never guarantee that you would have one.  

They throw the body into the deep waters and watch solemnly as it sinks to the bottom of the sea. “Where did you get the machete?” Jordan asks, after a few moments to let Adam recollect himself.

“While you were fighting, I got on those boats and scavenged for anything I could use as weapon. And I found the machete,” Adam says.

Jordan reaches up and rests a hand on Adam’s shoulder. “Thank you, Adam. For saving my life.”

“I would have done the same for you, Jordan,” Adam says, before looking up at the skies, where the sun is shining brightly across the horizon. “So, what do we do now?”

“We get _them,_ ” Jordan says, “—and we get them to _pay._ ”

 

* * *

 

_xvi. rodgers + wijnaldum_

 

“Are you seeing this, sir?” Wijnaldum asks, as the video feed from Penang is transmitted to HQ in London.

“Yes,” Rodgers hisses through his teeth. The MI6 has sent agents to infiltrate the lodging where Adam and Jordan have spent the night, and is now sending Rodgers images from their cheap hotel room. The Malaysian police’s official report states that Jordan has disappeared even before their team was dispatched to the scene, but unofficial accounts state that Jordan have escaped right on the dot, before hiding and running on top of the buildings’ roofs to evade capture, before eventually rendezvousing with Adam at an unspecified spot.

And now, Agent Eleven is dead.

Now, it’s not just Milly that Rodgers has to deal with. Fourteen also has declared war against MELWOOD, or what was left of the program. There is nothing remarkable about the room at first, until the camera pans on the cracked mirror, hanging askew on one of the walls. Written in bold Sharpie, are the words “NO MORE” – and Fourteen’s dog tags hanging from one corner of the mirror.

Rodgers curses under his breath.

Milly is louder, and causes more PR damage in his efforts. Jordan is quieter, but slicker. God forbid if the two of them are ever going to meet, or Rodgers knows that he will be damned.

 

* * *

 

_epilogue_

 

If Adam has stolen a machete off one of the boats at Batu Feringgi, Jordan decides to steal an entire boat to escape, instead. “I stole an airplane in Vienna to get to you,” Jordan says, with a contented smile on his lips. “What is a boat?” he asks, before studying at the nautical map laid out in front of him.

“Are we lost?” Adam asks impishly, before biting at the straw of his cold Coke – also one of the things that they’d found on the boat – an entire freezer box full of chilled soft drinks, before heading off from the jetty.

Jordan snorts, before poking Adam’s bare shoulder with a pointy finger. “No we’re not.”

“I was kind of hoping that we’re lost,” Adam fake pouts, before placing his chin on the table and makes puppy eyes at Jordan. It’s essentially bait for Jordan to ruffle Adam’s hair— instead, Jordan uses the tips of his fingers to brush the short hairs behind his ears, pretending to tuck them there, his expression melancholic.

“There was a time when I would look at myself in the mirror and think that I’m a monster – and you, and the rest of them in white lab coats – you’re all Victor Frankensteins trying to play God,” Jordan says.

“I’m a murderer and a wanted man,” Adam says languidly, as he sucks on his straw. “Does that make me a monster now, too?”

Jordan shrugs. “Getting there,” he says, before he shoots Adam a lopsided grin. He lets himself loose, if only for this once. He’s no longer dependent on chems, on Blues or Greens, but he’s definitely addicted to this man sitting in front of him It doesn’t help that in this tropical heat Adam is only wearing a tank top and a pair of boardies that shows off his toned, beautiful calves – and it is difficult for Jordan to be a gentleman and _not_ stare.

It is not often that he gets these private moments to think about things other than keeping to a tight schedule, following orders and trying to stay alive. Now, Jordan is intoxicated by the taste of freedom, the tantalizing promise of never being alone again – the promise of Adam’s constant companionship.

He had given Adam many chances to leave him, get away, build a new life, as he knows Adam is perfectly capable of making it on his own. But Adam has stuck with him through thick and thin, and maybe he should have known – from the disappointment in Adam’s voice, in retrospect, when he was a few months late for his health check-up, or when he fails to attend at all – it is obvious now that Adam cares about him, even back then, even when Jordan was just a _number._

“You’re off somewhere far, far away,” Adam teases. “I’m _here_ ,” Jordan corrects him. Maybe it’s the heat that’s causing him to become delirious, but Jordan finds himself sitting closer to Adam, before fishing out an ice cube from inside his drink. He traces the edge of the ice-cube down Adam’s long, pale, column of neck, causing him to flinch – first in shock, then in humour – then, into something else entirely, something unreadable. Adam’s breath hitches as he lifts Jordan’s hand, which is still holding the ice cube up to his mouth. He bites at the melting ice-cube, before swallowing it into his mouth – licking at Jordan’s thumb and forefinger, in the meantime.

“Can I kiss you?” Jordan asks, as though he’s still in third grade, which causes Adam to blush all over, up to his roots. When Adam hesitates to answer, Jordan continues huskily, “I shouldn’t have asked – I should have just done it, right?”

“You should have done it a long time ago, you idiot.”

“Do you have any idea,” Jordan says, “—how even looking at you makes me so hard right now?”

“You talk too much,” Adam replies, before Jordan reaches across and kisses Adam – and _fuck,_ he will be lying if he hadn’t thought of kissing Adam in the examination room, or fucking him, or getting fucked by him – while Adam is wearing that darned lab coat. But _this_ – this is better than any of Jordan’s wildest imagination. Adam, soft and pliant under his touch, in the middle of the sea, near a tropical island. Underneath the sun and sweltering heat, with the promise of paradise; of _heaven_ , even if just for a little while.

Adam gasps against Jordan’s neck as he begins to palm Adam’s erection through the thin layer of cotton shorts; his other hand slips underneath Adam’s tank top and caresses his left nipple, before Jordan coaxes him into another deep, slow, lazy kiss. It isn’t even pressured or frantic – they’re done with keeping up with time, so they’re taking it _slow,_ as slow and as satisfying as they could. “Take off your clothes,” Jordan orders. “I want to see you, for a change.”

And Adam, being the siren that he is, complies.

He stands up and takes off his top in one swift motion, before throwing it onto the floor. Walking up to Jordan in one smooth stride, he straddles the younger man and lets Jordan lap at his neck, pressing sweet kisses down his chest, flicking one nipple with his tongue, causing Adam to gasp.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Jordan confesses against Adam’s skin, tasting of brine.

Adam groans. “I want to see you too.”

“You’ve _always_ seen me topless,” Jordan retorts.

“Not like this. Not like _this,_ ” Adam shudders, before he pauses to let Jordan pull his t-shirt off and discards it. Adam runs his fingers up and down Jordan’s body, pausing to trace the scar tissues from bullet wounds, and laps his tongue at a more recent wound from yesterday, during his fight with Agent Eleven. Jordan hisses at the contact, before Adam kisses every scar he could locate with his tongue, down, _down_ to the waistband of his shorts.

“How could you call yourself a monster, when you’re perfection itself?” he asks, before kneeling at Jordan’s feet and undoes Jordan’s shorts, pulling his gorgeous cock into view. Adam doesn’t even hesitate before licking the tip of Jordan’s cock, swirling his tongue around, causing Jordan’s head to loll back against the cabin door. Adam’s head begins to bob up and down, and soon, Jordan is thrusting deeper into Adam’s mouth – and a sense of possessiveness begins to overtake Jordan – how could Adam be so good at this, and how many times has he done this with other people before Jordan?

He brings one hand behind Adam’s head but keeps it there, a gentle pressure to steady him, instead of force to make him move faster. The sounds that Adam is making are positively obscene, and for a brief moment their gazes meet—if Adam continues at this pace Jordan knows he would come. Jordan doesn’t want to – not yet. What he _wants_ is to make Adam feel good too, and it looks as though he may have scraped his knees from kneeling on the floor – so Jordan pulls Adam up gently and kisses him again, before walking him backwards towards the small, makeshift bed and crawls between Adam’s legs.

Jordan takes Adam’s hard, leaking cock into his hand and wraps his mouth around it; his tongue pressed against the underside of Adam’s cock. He is devastated that he doesn’t have lube with him— because from here he could see Adam’s hole enticing Jordan to taste him, but Jordan knows he needs to prepare Adam properly in order not to hurt him. _Next time,_ he thinks, although his fingers presses against Adam’s opening, without entering him. He lets go of Adam’s cock from his mouth with a pop, and says, “I really want to make you feel good in there, Adam – but we’ll do that next time, a’ight?” He reaches for a bottle of suntan that he’d used earlier from the drawer, before slicking Adam and himself up.

Adam watches Jordan with a half-lidded stare, full of expectation, before he’s done waiting and pulls Jordan back up for another kiss. He wraps his long legs around Jordan’s waist, pulling him closer, before resting his heels at the crease of Jordan’s ass.

Jordan reaches between their bodies and wraps his strong hands around both of their cocks, and begins to jack them off together, before pressing tiny kisses on Adam’s forehead, on the tip of his nose, on his chin—eventually settling on Adam’s lips again.

Adam comes first – and he gasps into Jordan’s mouth, as his long fingers grasps at Jordan’s hair, the pads of his calloused fingers against the short hair at Jordan’s nape. Jordan shushes him with a thousand more kisses, before Adam lets out a hearty, contented laughter, when it is all over. He soothes Jordan in return, when Jordan spills into his hand. They shower butterfly kisses on one another as they bask in the afterglow – they deserve this, at least, for now.

Tomorrow, Adam knows that Jordan will set out to find Milly, and other possible MELWOOD agents who may be in hiding. Tomorrow, Jordan knows that Adam will try to find out a way to contact his family in Bournemouth, to let them know that he is alive and well. Tomorrow, they know that Rodgers will label them as criminals, on par with Milly, and their names will be all over CIA, Interpol, SVR’s radar.

The future seems bleak, but for now, they have one another. They may be called monsters by the very people who created them, but for now, it’s enough for Adam and Jordan to know that they’re _survivors._

Worse things await, but they will _live._

 

* * *

 

_fin_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the defamations of characters of A LOT OF PEOPLE and killing off so many characters. 
> 
> Squint and you will miss the Dejan/Mo allusion. 
> 
> Booperesque posted photos of Adam in boardies the other day and I can't stop thinking about it. 
> 
> In the meantime I apologize for another major flop from yours truly.
> 
>  now with a [spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/incendiarywit/playlist/4d4pF7yz4MiSkWoWUdv9Ts?si=LUxRg5ZDScWKJLxGQaEveA)


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